


Lovesong

by semi_sweet



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Patrick, Casual Sex, Feelings, Friends With Benefits, Kinky stuff, M/M, Mostly Smut, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Other Sex, Pining, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Smut, This is totally self-indulgent, fob doesn't exist, pete's in another band, read it, scene kid!patrick, seriously he's HAWT, slutty patrick, some more smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-09-28 16:36:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: “So,” he started, eager to get this moving, with a nod towards Frosty’s spider bites, “do those really make you better at sucking dick?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies.  
> I know what you're gonna say, you're gonna tell me off for having three unfinished fics and starting another one, but this one is actually complete, I just gotta post the chapters soooo weekly updates! It's not gonna be massively long either so no major commitment.  
> Coincidentally, commitment is what this is about. I hope you like the latest interpretation of Patrick, I'm surprised nobody seems to have done this before, snitch and I agree he'd look marvellous with spider bites.  
> Speaking of, snitchesandtalkers helped me out with this in more ways than just proofreading, this is probably a collaborative brain child tbh.  
> You can find both of us on tumblr, [this is me](https://scmi-sweet.tumblr.com) and [this is snitch](https://sn1tchesandtalkers.tumblr.com). Come say hi!
> 
> Hope you enjoy my slutty little scene child.

The sweat dripped off Pete as bodies crashed into him, hot, wet, sticky. The sound of the crowd was roaring in his ears, the faces of four-hundred scene kids all blurring into one, screaming pit. Somebody grabbed Pete’s arms, somebody else his legs and before he knew it, he was off his feet, countless pairs of hands on his body, not caring about privacy, no boundaries set as he screamed into the cordless mic. It was a welcome upgrade, sound quality exchanged for intimacy, authenticity. They liked it when he joined them, loved it when he became a part of them, another face in the pit, another body in the crowd. 

Pete landed shoulders-first back on stage, hitting his head against the floor, dazed for a second before he managed to gather himself, leap back onto his feet and scream out at the kids below him. They were as sweat-drenched as him, the sharp smell of them lingering in his nostrils, they shouted and kicked and pushed and punched, their fists syncopated by the sound of Andy’s drums, precise, on-point, perfect, and underlined by Pete’s screams, messy, discordant, unrefined. 

He leeched off them, off their energy, let it flow through every inch of his body until he was burning with it, the fire sparking his engines and making him go harder, faster, harder, faster, until they were harder, faster and everything was burning in an ecstatic moment of escapist euphoria. 

His eyes fell on somebody at the back of the venue, lounging against the long bar. Instead of a plastic solo cup with the venue’s shitty logo printed on in peeling colour, he had a lollipop trapped between his lips, at least that was what Pete made it out to be through the dim darkness of the unlit venue, a clear sign he had no intentions of launching himself into the pit at any moment. Pete watched him, just for a second, the glare of his blond hair too obvious to brush over without a second glance. Oh, but if only he could make out his face properly.

The chorus hit with a bang and nobody noticed that Pete had skipped a few bars as the crowd roared out his words for him, he merely thrust out the mic so it seemed like this was planned, rather than his slip-up for momentarily being distracted from the words. Was the guy in the back laughing at him?

Pete forced his attention to stay away from him for the set, instead focussing on the people that were here to see him, that actually gave a shit, that wanted a good show for their twenty bucks rather than a reason to laugh and mock. Somehow Pete found it hard to believe that a stuck up brat like that would even be in his fanbase. 

Ears still ringing with guitar static, Pete threw the mic behind himself as he trailed off stage. No encore. No time. His body was still buzzing with that post-show bliss, better than an orgasm, Chris had always said. He wasn’t sure he’d go that far. 

Actually, he thought to himself as he wiped the sweat off his brow with a towel that looked somewhat the worse for wear, that didn’t sound like a bad way to finish off the night. 

He trailed off to the merch stand, $15 bills exchanged for Gildan T-Shirts with cheap prints as designed by his dear sister, stored in his mother’s basement, much to her annoyance, directly landing in Pete’s pocket, only to then wander into the cash register of the nearest pizza place. He smiled sweetly at the kids that came to see him, the dudes who wanted his casual-cool pose on photos taken on their friends digital Lumix, the girls who wanted hugs and autographs on their arms and - if he was lucky - their tits. Look, Pete wasn’t objectifying. It was just that he wasn’t going to turn down a willing offer. 

It was usually these girls that caught his attention, the ones with the low-cut tops, the heavy eyeliner, the noticeable cleavage. That made it all the more bizarre that that wasn’t what caught Pete’s attention that night. It was after a dude with an awfully tasteless Sugarcult shirt who wanted Pete to cover half his face for the picture (for some fucking reason) that Pete spotted him. He was laughing with one of the guys from Dead Cats - shitty name for a band, Pete doubted they’d ever be anything other than the support band they were - loud, open-mouthed laughs, head thrown back, displaying the swallows etched into the skin on his throat.

It wasn’t that Pete had never been with a guy, there’d been the occasional quick blowjob at the back of damp venues, he just never went into a night expecting one to catch his attention. This one did. 

He was short, shorter than Pete even, which was good, he didn’t like his potential partners being taller than him, his hair was white, no… silver, cut short at the sides and flopping into his face at the front, not quite a fringe, not quite a quiff. It starkly contrasted the darkness of his tattoos, scattered across his neck and arms and who knew where else. The black of his piercings stood out against his almost white skin, pale as snow, spider bites hugging his thick, lush lower lip, the Medusa sitting above his upper, the hoop on his right nostril, the one on his eyebrow, only half-covering a faint scar. His eyes, brilliant blue-green, were thickly ringed with black kohl, and from behind his ear, a row of dark, defined tattoos traced down his skin, below the collar of his Underoath t-shirt and on over his arms, down to his wrists and onto the back of his left hand, a black compass, the needle pointing east. Pete smirked at him when their eyes happened to meet, an invitation, a sign of willingness. He’d never had his cock sucked by a guy with a lip ring, worth seeing how it compared to his female counterparts. 

To his delight, Jack Frost bit his lip - and god, was that one sinful bottom lip - and let his eyes scan over Pete. He leaned back, jutting his hips out, tensing the stomach muscles he couldn’t see anyway, but it was almost an automated reaction for Pete. His jeans were low-cut, he knew the edges of his bartskull would be visible over the studded belt. When he was done, Silver smirked back, tilting his head towards the door before disappearing, weaving his way through the crowd. His cock already twitching with interest, Pete tried to follow him, doing his best not to lose sight of the silver hair. He apologetically pushed past fans asking for his autograph, shattering their illusions and confirming that you should never meet your heroes because they’ll be too preoccupied following the promise of a quick orgasm to spare you a second of their time.

He found him leaning against the wall of the club, breath forming clouds in the cool october air, a leather jacket suddenly wrapped around his shoulders, his skinny-jean-clad leg kicked up against the wall. 

“There you are!” His voice… wasn’t what Pete had been expecting. Lower, the hint of a midwestern drawl colouring it. Pete shrugged.

“Had to push through the kids to get here, see the lengths I go through?” Jack Frost chuckled, eyes drifting down to the bulge gradually forming in Pete’s pants. 

“So,” he started, eager to get this moving, with a nod towards Frosty’s Spider bites, “do those really make you better at sucking dick?” 

Why don’t you see for yourself? Was the easy reply he’d set Frosty up for, not the tut and eyeroll. 

“Don’t try to tell me you’ve never had your dick sucked by somebody with lip piercings, dude.” Pete’s jaw clenched. He should turn and leave there and then, there was a number of girls here that would gladly open their legs for him to slip between, much less gobby about it, for sure. 

“But hey, if you want… more points of comparison…” Pete felt a tug at his belt and took a step towards Frosty, who had tipped his head back, the sparrows either side of his adam’s apple straining on his skin. He could feel heat radiating from his body and leaned in, closing the space between their lips. Kissing was kinda gross, really, he’d never been overly into it, but he couldn’t refrain from sinking his teeth into that gorgeous lip. Frosty let out a beautiful little, bitchy moan and his hand curled around Pete’s bicep, eager and desperate. Pete pushed his thigh between his legs only to find - success - his cock was hard, trapped in his jeans, eager to get out. He started humping against Pete’s leg, rubbing his crotch along him, chasing friction. 

“Where are you staying?” the kid breathed against his lips. Pete wasn’t sure what it mattered, but replied with a hushed “van” nonetheless. 

“My apartment’s not far,” Frosty continued through sloppy kisses, “and much warmer than this…” Pete grunted against his lips and pushed him further against the wall, grinding against him with more urgency. He really just wanted to come and get back into warmth. But then again, a bed for the night… that sounded tempting…

He gave his lip a las nip before stepping back, signalling to the guy to lead the way. Pete was glad he didn’t try to take his hand, just let him silently follow for about five minutes until he stopped at a red front door next to a bakery. Frosty fumbled with his keys for a seconds before fighting with siad door, tugging at it before kicking against it until it swung open with a crash. He smiled and shrugged, pointing Pete up the stairs with the instruction “first floor left.” Pete totally made sure to make his arse sway as he climbed the stairs.

As Frosty fought with the next lock, this time on a white door, Pete took note of the name on the doorbell. Trohman. 

“Uh… my room’s… through there-” Frosty motioned towards the right one of the two doors Pete was faced with, the hallway opening up to the left where he presumed the kitchen to be. “Bathrooms down there, straight through, in case you… need it at some point.” He watched as Frosty toed his shoes off and threw his leather jacket - complete with an array of mismatched pins - over a hook on the back of the door. 

He didn’t get a chance to even consider going to the bathroom, before he could so much as open his mouth, Frosty had him pushed against the door, kissing him desperately, open-mouthed, his tongue licking over Pete’s lips as he pressed himself against him, sluttish moans coming from his tattooed throat. 

They fell into the bedroom and Pete didn’t have time to take a look around, too desperate, too eager, he walked Frosty backwards until he came to a sudden halt. Pete reached around him and braced himself against the windowsill, trapping Frosty between himself and the glass. Two hands curled into his hair, tugging and pulling as teeth sunk into him just below his ear and Pete heard himself gasp as Frosty kissed down his neck, trailing his tongue along his hot skin until they reached his t-shirt, where his fingers grabbed the collar and tugged it up. Pete lifted his arms, letting the black shirt fall to the floor behind him, leaving his bare, toned chest on display. Frosty bit his lip as he took in the ring of thorns tattooed around Pete’s collarbone, traced it with his fingers before letting his hands glide down his sides. He looked up at him, meeting Pete’s eye with a breathy, desperate “fuck”. 

Pete reached down to his jeans, undoing the too-tight belt buckle, Frosty’s constant thrusting not making it any easier, but he managed to get his hand down those way too skinny jeans. He smirked when he realised Frosty wasn’t wearing any boxers, his fist wrapped around his thick, heavy length. Fuck, it felt big. Frosty’s mouth dropped open as Pete stroked his thumb over the tip in sloppy circles, gathering up the precum already flowing from the slit and rubbing it over the head. 

“Fuck, stop, before I come in my pants you fuck,” he panted, already undoing Pete’s jeans. His grin was malicious when he retrieved his hand from Frosty’s jeans, going back to kissing him because apparently he liked that and if Pete did what he liked, that increased his chances of getting his dick sucked some time soon. 

He was in luck. He watched in anticipation as Frosty dropped to his knees, jeans still hanging open, revealing a scattering of short, copper hairs. Pete smirked to himself. He’d always liked a ginger. He groaned as Frosty kissed along his abdomen, licking over his bartskull tattoo, tracing the lines of it with the tip of his tongue. He peeled off Pete’s jeans, letting them hang between his knees, before turning to the briefs, open-mouthed, hot kisses along the cotton until Pete was panting above him. He peeled them down, slowly, revealing Pete’s hard, aching cock inch by inch. He pressed his lips against the shaft, trailing down as the fabric slid away, further, further, further until-

“You… have a… you have a dick piercing.” Pete smirked at him, hand curled into his hair. 

“Like it?” People usually did. His secret, he’d never publicly shared that particular piece of information. Girls always went crazy, wanted to know how it felt, eager to find out.

Frosty looked like he was trying not to laugh. 

“Hm.. yes, it’s… very nice, it… doesn’t it make condoms, y’know… break?” Pete felt himself become irritated. This was his special trick and this dude was worried about the damn condom? He couldn’t even get pregnant, Pete had felt the hot cock between his fingers. 

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll stop stalling.” Pete coiled his fingers further into the guy’s hair as his lips finally met with the tip of his cock, the touch so delicate he was scared it would break if he urged him on or seemed too eager, so he just let things take their course as Frosty started slowly bobbing his head, going deeper and deeper every time. Pete tipped his head back and sighed, satisfied with the wet warmth suddenly surrounding him and-

“Ooh, shit, fuck,” he moaned loudly at the sudden feeling of something hard and hot rubbing along the underside of his cock and he felt Frosty smirk around him. He glanced down as he pulled back, dragging his tongue along his shaft before leaning back, leaving it out for Pete to see the small, round, metal stud in it. Fuck, this guy was full of wonderful little secrets. 

He went back to sucking Pete’s cock, like his life depended on it, the combination of his plump, soft lip and the metal ridges hidden in and around his mouth sending Pete soaring, the feeling of it all just on the good side of too much. But, god, the kid sucked cock like a champion. 

His legs began to tremble under Frosty’s fingernails, teetering on the edge of the most mind blowing orgasm in a long time when-

A frustrated whine rang through the room as Frosty pulled off, squeezing the base of Pete’s dick, killing the pressure that had been building up. 

“Don’t be so impatient… don’t want you to blow your fucking load before we get started…” He stood up, stepping out of his own jeans and, fuck, did the kid have a cock. He stroked it lazily, angry and red and beautifully long and thick and Pete had never before felt the urge to taste a cock, but he did then. He scrambled out of his trousers - still caught around his knees - and pressed him back against the windowsill, their dicks brushing, making Pete bite down on Frosty’s lip as his hand wandered to his arse. He cupped it, roughly groping it and Frosty let out another one of his beautifully slutty moans when Pete teased a finger between his cheeks. 

He’d had his dick sucked by dudes before. He hadn’t ever… gone this far. He figured it was fine, how different could it be from fucking girls? 

“Huuuh, come on, let me..” Frosty panted against Pete’s lips, his breath hot and wet as he wiggled between his arms. Pete leaned back enough to let him turn around and looked… took in the tattoos over his back, continuing on from his neck and shoulders, over his shoulder blades, an eagle with its wings spread. He bit along it, making Frosty whine and buck back, his arse rubbing against Pete’s leaking length. Right. Yes. 

Sex.

It was odd that Frosty hadn’t handed him a condom, what with his earlier remark, but maybe that was just bitchy… he seemed bitchy. He shouldn’t be bitchy, not when he was taking Pete’s cock pressed against the window. He leaned forward, sinking his teeth into Frosty’s neck, making him gasp and breathe more heavily, more frantically as he lined up and-

“Ow! No, you dick, prep, dude, fucking prep! Don’t go anywhere near my ass without lube, I swear to god!” 

Pete was grateful he didn’t blush, he was also grateful he didn’t lose his boner for all the blood that suddenly shot to his face. His dick was dumbly tapping against Frosty’s thigh as he tried to figure out what to do without any pointers. Lost for options, Pete hesitantly stroked a finger over him, trying not to be grossed out when the dry muscle twitched under his fingertips.

“No, dude, lube, look, I don’t care how hot you think you are, I’m not gonna get wet!” Pete bit back a snappy comment, somewhat tempted to smack his arse into submission, but something was telling him that would be far from appropriate.

“I, uh… I don’t…” He was making a fucking fool of himself and he knew it, wishing he’d just gone with the girl with the black bangs and raccoon tails. She’d had a lip ring, too, and she would have been a lot easier to fuck. 

Frosty tutted and slipped out from between Pete’s arms, the mood suddenly killed. The bounce of his cock seemed obscene as he paced across the small room before crouching down beside his bed. Pete watched as his spine pressed against his pale skin, he could practically count the vertebrae. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make out the script wrapped around his tramp-stamp heart from this distance, but he was willing to bet his life it was some shitty lyric from a pretentious underground underground band. And underground underground underground band. That was how pretentious the posters and prints on his wall were. 

Frosty re-emerged from beneath his bed, bottle of lube clutched in his hand as he made his way back over to Pete. His mouth was hanging open and Pete found himself jealous of the metal rings hugging his lip. Fuck, he was a little too obsessed with this guy’s mouth, wasn’t he? But it was beautiful and it was made for sucking cock. And Frosty knew it. Why else would he have his tongue pierced? Pete was certain the only reason was so he could drive the guys he found in his bed mad. 

He stopped in front of Pete, the bottle already uncapped and he watched, riveted, as Frosty generously coated the fingers of his right hand with the clear gel and reached behind himself. He couldn’t see what was going on, only the tension in his bicep and the way his head tipped back as his breathing picked up gave Pete a pretty good idea. His legs were spread wide as he moved his fingers inside himself, shamelessly facing Pete, his huge cock angry, read and leaking against his belly as his breaths turned into mewling little moans, his eyes scrunched together and his jaw fell slack. 

His teeth sunk into his lip, catching against the rings as he began rocking back against his fingers, a desperation to his movements and Pete couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed Frosty, turning them around so he was trapped between his body and the windowsill once again, and maneuvered them until he was bent over, chest braced against the wooden board. Pete had a perfect view of him like this, spread out for him, two fingers knuckle-deep in his arse, the tensing and relaxing of his arm not leaving any mystery as to what they were doing. Pete let a bead of spit drip onto Frosty’s rear, where it dribbled down to where he was fingering himself, making him gasp and buck back against Pete. 

Determined to go down as the best fucking lay this guy was ever going to have, Pete grabbed the bottle of lube next to Frosty’s shoulder, copying his earlier actions, coating his fingers in the stuff. To his pleasure, his dick became harder and harder as he carefully, carefully, tried adding his own finger to the two already buried in him. 

“Ooh, yeah… yeah, come on,” he panted as Pete pushed in, “come on, open me up for you… god, yeah, ugh, yeah, that’s it, yeah, right there, oh god…” Pete crooked his finger against the walnut-sized bump inside him, stroking over it, pushing down, teasing, just teasing. 

“Fuck, okay… okay, come on, give me your cock…” He didn’t have to be told twice. Much to his disappointment, Frosty waved a condom under his nose he must have grabbed with the bottle. Pete reluctantly pulled the clear latex over his aggressively throbbing cock before covering it with a generous amount of lube. He’d learned his lesson. Humiliatingly. 

He pressed a hand against Frosty’s spine as he lined up, holding him down and in place. He gasped dramatically as Pete slid in, he watched in fascination as Frosty’s body took him in inch by glorious inch. When he was in all the way, Pete paused, taking a moment to adjust to the feeling of it. It was tight. WAY tighter than pussy. The sensation of it was already taking him dangerously close to the edge and he had to ground himself, take a moment to gather his wits and-

“Fucking move, will you?” Frosty growled underneath him. Pete grit his jaw hard, once again having to stop himself from landing a smack to the kid’s arse. He leaned over him, so his own hands were braced on the windowsill… and then didn’t take a second to let Frosty adjust.

Mercilessly, Pete pounded into the guy, skin slapping against skin loudly as he almost violently thrust into his hot, tight body. His stomach rubbed against Frosty’s back as his hips crashed into him, making him smack against the windowsill at every thrust, sure to leave nice, black bruises on those pretty hip bones, he wished he could see the way they were going to blend into the shitty script on his belly. 

Underneath him, Frosty was being very, very loud. He’d traded individual, low moans for one loud cry, jolted by Pete’s body colliding with his.

“Oh, fucking… Jesus Christ…” he panted as Pete wrapped his arms around him, seeking more leverage, until he felt sweat dripping off his brow onto the crow on his back. He was grunting with the effort of it, but something had gripped hold of his brain, blotting out everything that wasn’t him and the fucking gorgeous little scene kid taking his cock like a champion.

Stars clouded Pete’s vision when Frosty suddenly cried out and became impossibly tighter around him, spasming around his dick as his body began to tremble and shake and he slumped, boneless, over the window pane. 

Pete, making the connection, realising the boy had come and was in the afterhaze of an incredible orgasm, went to pull out, but Frosty gripped his arm.

“No, no, keep… keep going, I wanna… keep going…” Pete hesitated, not sure if he should, maybe it was safer to just jack off quietly and come over that cheap-looking tramp stamp, but Frosty felt… so good. He went slower, at least, probably drawing it out more, but he could already see the guy wincing underneath him on every other thrust, his hands balled to fists. Finally, after another few seconds, Pete felt his own climax wash over him, making his hips snap forwards as he came into the condom, his eyes rolling back and his legs trembling as a low moan slipped from his throat. 

It was always frustrating how short they lasted. 

He slipped his softening dick out of Frosty, who practically collapsed on the spot, just catching himself on the window sill he’d been bent over. Pete tied up the condom, wiping his cock on his t-shirt. He needed a fresh one, anyway. 

He left Frosty to recover by himself for a moment, slipping off to the bathroom. It was, indeed, just straight down the hall and no at all hard to find, as promised. 

Pete leaned over the sink, splashing cold water in his face before giving himself a good, long stare-down in the mirror.

He’d just been balls deep in a guy.

As things went, that was pretty gay. He should probably think of re-labelling himself, possible using it for marketing… or best not. Hardcore dudes, you never really knew… best this stayed quiet. Nobody needed to know. Even if Frosty talked, who’d fuckin’ believe some scene kid from back-alley Chicago? Pete mustered himself, wondering if he should give the old septum ring a good twirl again, if it would suit him as much as Frosty’s piercings did him. Fuck, those spider bites were to die for.

When he walked back into the bedroom, Frosty was in a pair of pyjamas and Pete couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. Still, the small batman logos on the trousers were amusing him, at least. The blinds had been drawn - possibly something they should have done before fucking against the window with the light on - and a pair of sweatpants and a towel had been laid out on the bed. Pete reached for them.

“I’m not hinting or anything, just… in case you want a shower or whatever. Tomorrow. I kinda just wanna go to bed right now.” Pete frowned at him as he slid beneath his orange duvet. 

“Can’t I have a shower whilst you go to sleep?” Frosty shook his head.

“No, I like to cuddle after, get here.” He sighed and crawled under with him. Pete did not like to cuddle, not after a casual one-night-stand. Which was what Frosty was going to be this time tomorrow. Still, he let him wrap his inked arms around his bare chest, the cotton of his pyjamas sticking to his arse that, frankly, desperately needed a wash. He’d played a show and fucked a guy and was now going to sleep without a shower.

Oh well, there was always the morning.

 

Pete felt like shit. His back ached and his shoulders were killing him as he tried to rid his body of the pain. He managed to wriggle free of the dude’s grasp, whipping the towel off the end of the bed before sneaking out of the bedroom. There was a shower here and he was determined to use it before quietly leaving. He paced down the hall and into the living room he’d have to traverse to get to the bathroom he’d located last night. The morning sunlight was seeping into the room through the east-facing window and of course the guy had a pretentious, persian-looking but definitely not persian carpet, an ornate-looking coffee table and a-

“Whoa! Fuck!” In a fluster, Pete scrambled to cover his dick with the towel upon laying eyes on the very, very stoned-looking (and, come to think of it, smelling) guy smiling at him from the beanbag.

“Eeeey! You’re the… dude, the dude I heard… well, I heard… him I heard. Not you. Who’re you?” Pete carefully mustered the curly-haired dude eating a slice of cheese with ketchup (just that, no bread, just the cheese… and the ketchup). Had he been sitting there last night?

“Pete I’m… are you his… friend?” The dude grinned and waved at him.

“Joe Trohman, flatmate… I let him stay here and not pay a fair share of the rent.” Pete nodded, glancing towards the bathroom door.

“So did you… have fun?” Pete bit his lip.

“Yeah, sure, I mean, yeah, it was… it was good, he seemed to… y’know, I mean, well, you probably heard so…” Joe waved it off like it was nothing. 

“Don’t get too full of yourself, dude, he’s always that loud. No, no, you know you’re doing really well when he doesn’t make a noise, yanno? I know his secrets. His tricks. Tricky tricks.” He snorted and started giggling to himself. Pete left him to it as he managed to slip into the small bathroom. 

Always like that. Joe could eat his entire arse, he’d been there, Frosty had enjoyed it, had enjoyed him. What did Joe know?

Pete pretended he didn’t care as he stood under the hot spray of the water.

Whatever. In a few minutes, he’d never see the silver hair or the piercings ever again. He swore he wasn’t at all upset about that, not even in the slightest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello dears, welcome back to this little thing.  
> I'd appreciate it if you could leave kudos and comments if you like it, writing is hard and weary and we all want that sweet sweet validation. If you're worried your account will show up in the comments of this naughty, naughty bit of fic, you can find me [on tumblr](https://scmi-sweet.tumblr.com). Feel free to drop by for a chat, too!   
> Thanks to Snitch for betaing and letting me bounce ideas off her.

Pete slumped down in one of the camping chairs he’d grabbed from the back of Corpse Wives’ van, it was flimsy and reeked of weed, but his legs were aching after three days of carting gear through venues, jumping around on stage and leaping into the pit and if the thing collapsed underneath him and landed him on his arse, then so be it. He was beyond caring at this point. Somebody - his dear guitarist Brandon, undoubtedly - had put on Dashboard fucking Confessional and it was annoying Pete an inordinate amount as he tipped back his lukewarm can of Bud in one go before grabbing the next one. It opened with a fizz, the sticky, golden mess of it spilling over his hand and onto his jeans. Pete yelped a curse as he hurled it across the room, where it smacked against the gross walls of whatever this venue in the arsecrack of Raleigh. Not that Raleigh wasn’t already an arsecrack in and of itself, the venue was in the last back alley of America, it seemed. It definitely smelled like it. 

 

Pete had just acquired yet another beer - cooled, this time, he’d made sure of that - when one of the dudes from Corsage, possibly the worst band name Pete had ever heard and their music matched that sentiment, announced in a way too cheerful voice for what he was suggesting: “Truth or dare!” 

 

In that moment, Pete wasn’t the only one who rolled his eyes with a groan. Be put it on the girl the dude was trying to fuck, evidently too pussy to ask her outright, and Pete wasn’t gonna do it for him, either, he was a big boy, he could handle these things himself. 

 

“Dude I’m not fucking fourteen!” Andy complained, rightfully so, it was a dumbass idea. Pete hadn’t played dumb party games in nearly ten years, he was too old for this shit. 

 

Tragically, his bandmates, save Brandon, Brandon was just a straight-up dumbass and a stupid, starry-eyed kid, were the only sensible humans around him. Even Mick from High Tide, who he couldn’t stand solely based on the fact that they were the only band on the lineup above him,  cheered enthusiastically, got in line to form a neat little circle like they were teenage girls at a sleepover, not grown men on tour. With a tut, Pete made to get out, he’d head off to bed (the back of the van) to try and catch at least a little sleep (on the cold, hard floor) and Andy looked at him in full agreement as they pushed their chairs away.

 

Pete realised just  _ how much _ he couldn’t stand every other band on this godforsaken tour when they jeered, shouted, threw insults at them, pussies was what they were, apparently. When Alex from Corpse Wives grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him back to his shitty chair, forcing him down into it, Pete had to summon every ounce of self-restraint he could find within himself so he didn’t end up breaking his nose. He scowled at the due from Corsage and when the empty water bottle decided to pick him as its next victim, he decided agreeing to doing this shit tour through the back end of America with a load of stinking men was the most stupid thing he had done in his life. Pete Wentz had done a lot of Stupid shit in his life. This was definitely top of the list. 

 

“I don’t wanna play your dumbass game”, he growled into the round. That didn’t go down too well.

 

“You’re such a fucking bore, Wentz,” Alex threw back at him, “so fucking scared for your shitty reputation as arma’s edgelord that you can’t have fun or what? Jerk.” Pete sneered because, no, that wasn’t the fucking case, he just didn’t much want to spend time with stinking white boys behaving like pubescent teenage girls that were too pussy to tell their crush they wanted to suck their dick s they had to play stupid games they’d lifted out of the next best pink glittering teenie mag with Zac Efron’s face on it. 

 

“Fine. Truth,” he spat out from behind his beer. He  _ wasn’t supposed to drink until he fucked up, those were the rules _ , but Brandon could go fuck himself. His reluctance to do their stupid dares pissed off the kids and made Pete immeasurably satisfied. He was playing along, they couldn’t complain, could only come up with dumb uninspired questions they knew the answer to anyway. 

 

Thankfully, Pete was spared even from that by his very own deus ex machina. 

 

Heads turned at the backstage door fell shut with a bang, only to reveal a small crowd of scene kids. It was almost comical, seeing 15 year olds trying to look like they’d fallen out of Hawthorne Heights, not quite having figured out how to perfect it yet, just a bit of a mess, really. But Pete wasn’t laughing. His eyes were fixed on the mop of messy, silver hair sandwiched in the middle of the kids, all chattering at him rather than with him, the occasional adult almost disappearing amongst the teenage scene girls. Avril Lavigne knock-offs. Not as cute for the most part, but that was alright, really. Just teens. Pete was pretty certain he looked awful at 15. He’d laugh at them behind closed doors but he wasn’t so much of an arse to make fun of them to their faces. They were shoving their money up his backside, after all. 

 

The most pressing question, maybe, the one Pete was trying to avoid thinking of because the answer was cringey at best and creepy at worst, was  _ what the fuck is Frosty doing here?! _

 

The dude from Corsage suddenly yelled so loud Pete’s already-battered eardrums thought they’d explode.

 

“Patrick! Hey, Patrick, Patrick! Come on, truth or dare!” Pet shifted uncomfortably as Frosty - Patrick, apparently - turned and their eyes met, his brow drawn into a frown, his look judging until he realised that no, this wasn’t Pete’s dumbass idea. Patrick seemed to be the mature type, pulling a face at the dude from Corsage’s demand and evidently keen to get out as suddenly as he’d come in, the scene kids around him staring wide-eyed and possibly starstruck. Pete couldn’t blame them. Or Patrick, as he made to push through them and head towards the exit, but was held up by a guy who was evidently as awful as Alex, pushing him towards their sleepover circle of camping chairs. 

 

However unlike Pete, still scowling, Patrick’s frown turned into a smile when everybody, the entire room, every last person except Pete and Andy, started chanting his name. Pete’s gut clenched. Why did they all know his fucking one night stand from weeks back? Who the fuck was this kid? How the fuck had he got backstage? All Pete knew about him was he was short, bitchy and a screamer. He was familiar with the way his pink cock curled up towards his belly, but until fifteen seconds ago hadn’t known his name. 

 

“Alright, alright, I’m not drinking though,” he determined, his voice a low slur that reminded Pete just why he’d been so eager to stick his dick in the kid. 

 

“Just don’t fuck up then!” Alex shouted at him. Patrick rolled his eyes.

 

“Truth.” 

 

“Boooooring!” The protest was met with a shrug. The guy from Corsage leaned back, his eyes scanning Patrick in a way that made Pete want to sock him in the jaw. 

 

“Alright, how many people have you fucked?” Pete sat up. Patrick laughed. A big, loud, head-thrown-back sort of laugh. 

 

“Oh man dude… one. There.” Pride bloomed in Pete’s chest and he smiled, eyes fixed on the kid, willing him to look at him, to meet his eyes and nod, confirm Pete was the first and only, this guy’s every wet dream. 

 

“No, come on, you know what I mean… how many people have you slept with?” Pete’s smile faded. As an awful suspicion crept up on him.

 

Patrick paused, Patrick bit his lip, Patrick frowned. Eyes turned skywards, he could practically watch as he ticket names off a list, sometimes just faces, sometimes just cocks, until he finished off with a shrug. Pete’s jaw clenched. It was fine, nothing to be mad about, he had no reason to be jealous. He slept around himself, it was fine. Alex waved a beer at Patrick, who sneered at him in disgust and muttered: “Alright, dare then…” 

 

Corsage dude clapped his hands gleefully, like this was everything he’d ever dreamed of, like he’d been waiting for this very opportunity his entire life and the dread was apparent in Patrick’s features. 

 

They blindfolded him, a stinking, sweaty shirt wrapped around his head, and began spinning him in circles, his hands flailing in search of balance. When he came to a halt, he swayed precariously, seconds from toppling over had Brandon not secured a firm grip on his shoulders. 

 

“Okay, now what?” Patrick asked as he stumbled around the circle of men, feet tripping over each other. 

 

“Make out with the first person you find.” Patrick scoffed, muttered something about wasted opportunity as he began picking his course. Pete’s gut clenched as Patrick stumbled in his direction, he looked undeniably cute with his waving hands and his rubbery feet, mouth hanging open slightly as he groaned his disapproval, but he was on a direct trajectory, towards Pete, right towards him, and then there were his lips, the way they shaped into the kiss, his tongue hungrily lapping at another mouth like he depended on it, his arse perfectly perched on his lap, so tight in those skinny jeans, the way he lightly moved his hips, like he was looking for more, his teeth biting now, taking over from his soft, plump lips and he trapped his bottom lip between them as he pulled back and undid the blindfold. It fell from his eyes and Patrick grinned widely, the black of his lip ring pressing into his skin and his eyes beamed like it had been real. 

 

Pete was half-hard by the time Patrick climbed off Alex, he did his best to hide his semi, readjusting his trousers around his crotch, shifting in his seat, but he knew from the look he shot him that Patrick had seen. Pete nearly passed out when he winked at him. Like he was back in high school and stuck on a teenage crush. What a load of bullshit. 

 

Alex, too, looked rather flustered, blinking into the middle distance, cheeks flushing like crazy. Pete wondered if he’d ever kissed a guy before or if this had been more of an embarrassment. Not all bands in the scene were particularly chill with the whole gay thing. Though they seemed accommodating enough for Patrick, currently cuddling up to one of his presumed friends waiting by the exit. Pete watched as their little gang trailed off, kept his eyes fixed on the rug of silver hair, caught a glint in Patrick’s eyes as he turned round to look at him. 

 

“Don’t worry about it, Alex,” Pete heard the dude from Corsage declare as he got up to follow the crook of Patrick’s finger, “we’re all a little gay when Patrick’s in the room.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Pete’s hands slammed against the door with a loud bang, bracketing Patrick between them and all but trapping him between a rock and a hard place. The rock being the cold, blue steel of the backstage door, the hard place being Pete’s cock, currently mapping out the fastest direct route to the inside of the scene kid in front of him. 

 

Patrick kissed like a slut. Wet, open-mouthed, hungry, desperate, it would be pathetic if it weren’t so hot. Impatient as he was, Pete got his thigh between Patrick’s legs and rubbed it against him, eliciting moans from the kid, small, breathy moans and pleas for more. 

 

He could have more. He could have all of him. 

 

Pete’s hands found his face, fingers curling into his hair and holding him in place as he kissed him wet, hot and messy, no finesse, no feeling, just pure want. He was faintly aware of Patrick fumbling with the buckle of his belt, the tingling in his balls growing more intense in anticipation as he managed to pull fake leather from cheap metal, fingers immediately going to the button of his jeans. He was swift, efficient, obviously familiar with the routine of undressing another human, it took him no time to get the zipper open and he even managed to wriggle the skin-tight jeans past Pete’s arse far enough to be able to worm his hand into his briefs. 

 

Pete broke away and gasped as it curled around his dick, tight but not painful, and pressed his face into Patrick’s hair as he began to stroke. The autumn air was cold on his exposed skin, nagging at the back of his mind that this probably wasn’t the place to be doing this, but he didn’t care when Patrick sunk to his knees and sucked on his cock, the combination of hot flesh and hard metal reminding him just why he’d come his fucking brains out the last time. It had made Top 5, no doubt. 

 

Part of him had been hoping for a fuck, but Pete honestly was far from mad when Patrick nudged him down his throat, swallowing around him and taking his come like it was nothing to him. 

 

Pete fell back against the brick wall, rough and cold on his bare arse, watching closely as Patrick sat back, his blue eyes big and shining like he didn’t have the remnants of Pete’s come dripping from his lips. He’d done it deliberately, he must have. Little shit.

 

With a sigh, Pete let himself slide down to the floor, back pressed firmly against the wall. He reached out for Patrick and pulled him closer, the taste of himself still lingering even after he’d kissed him. 

 

Patrick was ridiculously pale, even more so with the cold outdoor light sharpening his features, the kohl around his bright blue eyes like ink on paper. The pupils were ringed gold, like there was treasure to be had within. What was going on in that head, Pete wondered to himself as Patrick smiled warmly at him. 

 

He’d come at Patrick’s mercy twice now. So far he knew his name and that he, apparently, had quite the reputation. And that he was the mercher for the only band above Pete’s on the lineup. The bright red of the High Tidal Logo printed onto the black t-shirt he was wearing a reminder of that. Not that it mattered. Nobody really cared about merchers. 

 

“Quite the gang you’ve got following you around.” Patrick shrugged, “don’t really know most of them… they just kinda… show up.” All Pete could think to do was shrug at the not-answer as his nails picked at a small stone sticking out of the tarmac. 

 

“What about you? Not a fan of the other guys?” Patrick’s head was cocked to the side like a puppy, eyes wide and questioning. There wasn’t much Pete could do to prevent his own eyes from flicking down to his mouth, his goddamn  _ mouth _ , he should probably be concerned with how obsessed he was with it and the black rings hugging his bottom lip. 

 

“They’re assholes. Mostly. Dunno, just easier to avoid them than try to get on. I find.” He was fumbling with his fly, tring to get it up, but his fingers felt fat and heavy and he wasn’t doing a very good job. At all. He could feel himself blush when Patrick quirked an eyebrow at his measly attempt to get himself dressed again. 

 

“Do you uh… wanna go somewhere less… freezing cold?” Pete stuttered around his words, trying to distract from the way the zip kept getting stuck. Patrick pouted a bit, though that might just be his mouth, but eventually kicked his tattered-looking converse against the floor and sprang up before Pete could even begin to think about moving at all. 

 

When he’d suggested somewhere less cold, he’d meant they could disappear off to a bar or a McDonald’s or even the back of the bus as long as the heating was on, he hadn’t meant to go back inside the damn venue that was maybe the better part of a degree warmer than the near-icy outdoors. He was sure Patrick was deliberately winding him up when he dragged him back towards the room they’d just come from, the cackling voices of young men in their 20s thinking they owned the world audible through the flimsy plywood door. Oh joy of joys. 

 

But Patrick didn’t drag him back in. Patrick stopped, his back to it, his lower lip caught between his teeth, eyes wide and faking innocence. Pete’s cock gave an interested twitch. 

 

“Ready to go again?” Patrick whispered, jutting his hips forward. His jeans were low-cut, revealing the top of his dark purple underwear, and over that a hint of a tattoo below his belly button. Pete smiled at the mirror of his own. He hooked a finger into the waistband, tugging at it until their hips were pressed together. He could clearly see the outline of Patrick’s cock in his tight, tight jeans, he’d not paid any attention to it before, surely the poor kid must’ve been like this for a while now. His mouth was hanging open, hot, wet breaths meeting Pete’s skin. He caught Patrick’s lips in a brief kiss as he undid the buttons on his jeans - three buttons, three, rather than just a button and a zipper like normal people had on their trousers - until he could peel them open.

 

Patrick bucked his hips, rubbing his cotton-clad dick against Pete’s knuckles, hard, big, real. Pete still felt anxious looking at it. He sunk his teeth into the inside of his cheek as he tugged down the purple boxer briefs, dragging them away from his skin until, with a sudden leap, Patrick’s cock bounced free, smacking against the tattoo on his stomach. Swollen, pink, it looked angry. 

 

Pete was just contemplating sinking to his knees and tasting it, his first cock, when a burst of laughter reminded him of the here and now, of where they were and what they were doing. All blood shot to his face.

 

“Do you, uh… wanna take this somewhere else, just-” 

 

“No,” Patrick insisted, grabbing Pete’s wrist and directing his open palm towards where he wanted it. “Please… Pete, please, I’ll… do whatever you want. What do you want? Tell me.” Pete wasn’t sure what he wanted himself in that moment. His own cock only half-hard, he was trapped between wanting to fuck the kid against the nearest wall and wanting to go to bed. Patrick, seemingly, had no such dilemma. 

 

“Tell me what to do, Pete, I want… please tell me what to do.” It might have been his puppy eyes, it might have been his begging tone, or the desperation in the way he kept trying to find friction in thin air, but suddenly, Pete knew exactly what he wanted. 

 

“Turn round, bend over, hands on wall.” Pete surprised himself with how commanding his tone was. It wasn’t the sort of thing he usually ventured into, but Patrick… Patrick seemed to be into it, judging by the way his eyes widened and he immediately did as told, leaning forward until his legs and torso were almost at right-angles to each other, his hands braced against the wall. Pete let the tips of his fingers skim over the tacky tramp-stamp, awfully done, the lines were uneven, the fade dreadful and it was gradually turning green as it faded out. “Fatally Yours” hugging a clumsily drawn skull. Pete couldn’t suppress a smirk at the words, even if their origin escaped him in that moment. 

 

He let his hand slide to Patrick’s hips, gripping them tightly until his fingertips were digging into the pale flesh of him. Ever impatient Patrick whined in protest and wiggled his arse pointedly. It was only cruel to deny him his pleasure at this point, Pete decided as he reached around his waist pull the studded belt from its loops, not succeeding as smoothly as he’d hoped, but succeeding nonetheless. He took Patrick’s arms, prised them away from the wall, pushing his face against it instead. He wasn’t sure how far he could go, what was acceptable, so his eyes stayed fixed on the kid looking for any sign of discomfort, any sign he should stop. Instead, Patrick gasped when his arms were crossed behind his back and bound with his own belt, tight enough for him not to be able to wiggle free. 

 

“Fuck yeah,” he muttered, Pete wasn’t sure if it was meant for him or the wall, “you like to play dirty.” In all honesty, Pete wasn’t sure what had possessed him. He was a vanilla guy, liked it to be quick, easy and simple. Nothing about this kid spelled out any of that. Except maybe easy. He was very easy. 

 

Pete peeled, literally peeled, off his way too skinny jeans, dragging them over the round curve of his arse with force. He couldn’t help but knead it, bare, exposed, waiting, the tight pucker of his hole twitched. 

 

“God, I wanna fuck you raw…” He didn’t want to waste any more time, wanted to sink in, feel him, close around him, hot, tight, wonderful.

 

Patrick just had to go and burst his bubble.

 

“Uh uh, no way, condoms and lube.” Pete wanted to tut, but stopped himself, merely commenting on how Patrick had told him to do what he wanted.

 

“Nah dude, told you to tell me what you wanted. I like being bossed around. I don’t like getting AIDS and/or a bleeding ass. Wrap up, slick up, you don’t even need to prep me.” Much as Pete’s animal side was protesting, he couldn’t argue with that logic. 

 

Patrick had both on him, no surprises there, though Pete suspected he was buying for his own size when he saw the XL package. What kind of dick bought XL condoms. Nobody needed XL, not even Patrick and his monster cock. He decided pretty much immediately that that name wasn’t gonna stick. 

 

Pete spread his cheeks with the palms of his hands, pushing Patrick further against the rough wall, just because he could. He was so pale he glowed with it, even in the dark. Pete took the base of his cock in his right hand, holding onto the bottom of the condom as he stood up on his toes to push himself in. It was hard at first, coming up against the resistance of Patrick’s arse, unwilling to let him in, but Pete felt him relax and, at the same time, the crown of his dick slipped past the ring of muscle into blissful heat. Patrick moaned at the feeling of it. 

 

“God, you’re tight,” Pete panted as he gradually pressed further into him, inch by inch, not because he wanted to go slow, but because he wanted to make Patrick wait. He watched the way he sunk into him, inside of him, breaching his body bit by glorious bit until his hips were pressed flush to his arse. Pete dropped down to the balls of his feet, still buried deep inside Patrick, moving his hands to his bound arms and pulling him back, closer, as if he could get any deeper. Patrick panted at the feeling. 

 

He pulled out slowly, arching his own hips backwards, torturing the kid by not giving him the fast, hard, rough friction he wanted, instead taking his time, feeling out every bit of it until just his tip was still buried. Patrick’s head dropped, a long, frustrated whine, close to a cry, sounded through the room. Pete pushed back in, gentle, careful, slowly. Patrick let out something close to a sob, begging him, “Pete, please, fuck… please, pleasepleaseplease.” Pete pulled out again, slowly, slowly, slowly. 

 

When he slammed forwards, skin loudly smacking against skin, Patrick grunted. Pete gripped onto his hips and started moving him in time with his thrusts, making him go faster, harder, faster, harder, as he pounded into the kid’s arse, rough, brutal, animal, the friction of it shooting stars through his veins, the feeling in his cock spreading through his groin, his lower stomach, going to his head and making him rabid. He bit his lip as he drove himself on, fasterfaster _ faster _ until he was sure he was going to break somethiing. Patrick suddenly let out a cry and Pete was thinking he’d already come when he started chanting: “yes, yes, yes, there, right  _ there _ , oh god, Pete…  _ Pete! _ ” He was loud, so loud, there was no doubt the guys on the other side of the door could hear his cried, his begging. 

 

“God, you’re… such a… such…  _ fuck _ ” the sentence was lost as Pete felt his orgasm building, a tingling in his crotch turning into a burning, immense pressure building up throughout his cock, his balls, his body, all of him until his legs were trembling with it and he was close, so close. 

 

His mouth dropped open with a quiet cry as he threw his head back and pulled Patrick as far onto his cock as he would go, coming hard and deep into the condom, his fingers grabbing at Patrick’s hips, sure to leave bruises as the kid tightened impossibly around him, undoubtedly hitting his own climax. As soon as his senses came back to him, Pete unbuckled the beld from around Patrick’s wrists, red and raw from where the fake leather had cut into them. His softening cock slipped out of him as he soothingly stroked over the aching skin. Patrick was breathing heavily, sweat covering him in a glistening sheen, and he grabbed for Pete, steadying himself against him as he held him close.

 

Patrick was still clinging onto Pete when he came back down from his serotonin high, his arms wrapped around his body and fists curled into the fabric of his shirt and Pete faintly recalled something about him being a cuddler. He managed to wrestle him off his body long enough to be able to drag both their jeans back on, having to help Patrick quite a bit with his own, his hands were still trembling. Pete would liked to have taken the credit for that, but the hairs on his arms were standing on end and pete could feel the chill on his own skin, too. 

 

“Do you, uh…” he wasn’t good at expressing affection, his objective usually consisted of getting into and out of pants and then promptly fucking off before any questions could be asked. He wasn’t good at emotions outside of his songs, oddly enough. Maybe that was why he couldn’t quite figure out the right way to say to Patrick that he wouldn’t much mind post-coital cuddles. Patrick, thankfully, seemed to want the same thing as him. 

 

“Are you in the van tonight?” Pete nodded, already dreading the state his back would be in the next morning. “I’m crashing at a friends,” Patrick announced, “if you… want. I dunno I just-”

 

“Like to cuddle?” the smile he got for finishing the sentence tugged at something inside of him. Suspiciously close to the chest area. He suppressed it because that was what he was good at. Suppressing the shit outta everything that might prove a slight problem. “I’ll worry about it later” was pretty much his life’s motto.

 

Their bed for the night was a single mattress on the floor, a little hard for Pete’s liking but definitely better than the backseat of the van. He pulled Patrick as close to him as he could, wrapping arms and legs around him and leeching off his heat for the night. At least he told himself that was all it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, pls leave a comment if u liked it, you can find me [on tumblr](https://scmi-sweet.tumblr.com).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO HELLO HELLO
> 
> welcome back to this... mess... this naughty mess. How are we all liking Slutty Scene Patrick? I'm a big fan. Personally, piercings make me weak. Specifically my own. I just had the jewellery changed and now I'm not sure I like its positioning. It's making me anxious. A lot of things make me anxious. Especially Pete in this fic because... well, you'll see. I'm sorta on a food high right now, I ate soooooooo much (nothing but carbs I love carbs MMMH CARBZZZ).  
> That's all the dream team eat in this, too. Carbs. Filthy filthy carbs. Maybe ass. Idk. Stay tuned to find out.  
> Yanno what I lovingly call this fic when I'm talking with my beta snitchesandtalkers? SLutrick. That's the name of this doc. Good ol'e lil slutrick. He's such a naughty boy. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Pete wasn’t sure when it became a regular thing. 

 

At first, he’d presumed it was coincidence for Patrick to have been there, that day, that time, maybe not as big a coincidence as if he’d been your average normie rather than an obvious MySpace Scene Kid who probably went to more shows than he could afford and cheated his way in through guest list plus ones and some shady blowjobs, but a coincidence nonetheless. 

 

When he’d seen him a second time, two days later chatting away to one of the techs, Pete began to suspect he may be less of just a scene kid and more of an insufferable groupie that followed bands on tour to be able to claim the singer knew him. He watched him carefully as he talked to Mike, touching his arm, laughing, frowning, seemingly enthusiastic about their conversation like his technician was an old friend of Patrick’s who he was catching up with after long time no see. 

 

It was only after the first week had passed that Pete saw him at the mixing desk. It was during soundcheck, annoying, dreary but Andy had forced them all this time, just once, he’d said, just once he was going to make them because the night before had been the worst they’d ever played. Pete highly doubted that, recalling god-awful sets played in basements of basements of basement clubs, but Andy, on the rare occasion he got angry, got very angry and if there was one thing he’d learned in their five years of friendship, it was Don’t Cross Andy Hurley When He’s Laying Down The Law. So they all tagged along, guitars and basses slung over arms, Pete fiddling with the green cap on his blue water bottle (evidently something had got jostled up at some point, he just hoped to god he wasn’t contaminating his water with Brandon’s saliva). 

 

The techs looked surprised when they all piled on stage at the scheduled time, well, only two minutes late. Pete wasn’t best pleased that he’d been asked to interrupt his midday nap for this, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, really. Not when Andy was in Serious Mode. 

 

He hadn’t even started when his voice gave out. It was never hard to spot the silver hair, it was like a signal  _ look at me, here I am, back to haunt you _ , sandwiched between otherwise black hair buzzing around the mixing desk at the back of the venue. 

 

“Pete can you pull yourself together for one fucking minute?” Chris snapped through his mic and Pete glared at him angrily. This was dumb, soundcheck was dumb and-

 

“What the fuck is he doing here?” He pointed to the mixing desk where the techs all looked at one another in confusion until they spotted the smug look on Patrick’s face. He bent over and spoke into the mic.

 

“Uh, I work here, dumbass, I’m the sound guy.” 

 

Pete dropped the mic and walked off stage, leaving the other three to yell at him as he made his way back to the van.

  
  
  
  
  


At first, he didn’t see Patrick regularly. Glimpses of him at the back of the venue behind his mixing desk, at the back of dark corridors, in the corner of the merch room, talking to somebody tall, dark, handsome that made Pete’s eyes roll of their own accord before he could even think of words such as  _ jealousy _ or  _ hurt _ because he wasn’t. He wasn’t.

 

And then, all of a sudden, he did. Chance meetings became deliberate, a search for the silver hair and black-rimmed ocean blue eyes, the pale skin with the dark ink, the plush, pink mouth with the metal ring. Patrick was teasing, charming, flirty, knew how to hold his hands behind his back and sway his body, knew how to jut out his hips, knew how to bite his lip and Pete was so painfully aware of the way he was being played and he was so painfully aware of how little he cared when Patrick would sink to his knees or open his legs, only cared about the tight heat of him, his arse, his mouth, his arms. He remained a cuddler. Pete, initially apprehensive of the close physical contact immediately after sex - he found it overwhelming, started to get used to it by the fifth time. 

 

It was easy, was what it was. Pete didn’t have to go in search of local girls here for him, no longer a given when they were touring with other bands with other guys. He was no longer the most attractive and he knew it, he  _ knew _ , for all his pretty boy charm; Alex was taller, stronger, Leo was masculine, handsome, Mark was confident, comfortable and looked way better in skinny jeans and eye liner than Pete Wentz ever could. Patrick didn’t care about that, he’d wait backstage, in the dressing room, by the vans, not every night, but most. 

 

Oh, they weren’t exclusive, Pete was neither dumb nor naive enough to believe that, but they were reliable. Most nights. Pete couldn’t deny the clenching in his gut when he’d come off stage in search for his own little Jack Frost only to find him chatting up one of the kids he’d spotted in the pit minutes before, gross and sweaty as he bashed other people’s faces in. They were all taller, more athletic, more handsome. It was fine, Pete told himself, they weren’t exclusive and they weren’t committed. It was just sex. 

 

Pete, in fact, was so convinced it was just sex, just the easy promise of Patrick, just the minimal effort it took for him to invite Pete inside, that when, eventually, maybe inevitably, he popped the question, he surprised himself as much as he surprised Patrick. 

 

They weren’t crashing at one of Patrick’s many, nameless, faceless friends’ that night, rather huddled together in a motel room Pete had decided to treat himself to for the night. It was cold out, the blankets too thin, for once he was grateful for another person’s body heat rather than overwhelmed by their proximity. Patrick nuzzled further into him as Pete trailed his lips along the back of his neck, sighing contentedly. He was cute like this, pale, naked skin on display, so vulnerable, his bitchy-confident attitude gone as he struggled to keep his sleepy eyes open. He brushed the light fringe out of his face, fingers tracing his cheeks, his jaw, down to his shoulders. Oh, but he was so  _ so  _  pretty. Pete decided he didn’t know him enough. He knew about him, he knew his reputation, knew how his bandmates talked behind his back, knew the names thrown at the kid. He knew his name, his shape, his colour, knew the ink that scarred his body, knew the pink curve of his velvet cock beneath his knuckles, but he didn’t know Patrick. 

 

He felt like he wanted to.

 

“Will you go on a date with me?” The words were out before he had so much as a chance to think about them, good, maybe. Pete had thought himself out of a lot of good things in life. Patrick, half asleep, shrugged nonchalantly, muttered a croaky “sure” that went straight to Pete’s head and turned onto his stomach. He always slept on his stomach, head turned to his right. In no time, his breathing had stilled to a low rhythm. 

 

Pete couldn’t find sleep as he smiled up at the dark blue ceiling.

  
  
  
  


When he went to find Patrick the next day, he was nowhere to be seen. He leapt off stage the second the song was over and headed to where Patrick was to be expected by the mixing desk, ready for the next set. For once, he wasn’t in search of an easy lay, wasn’t looking to simply satisfy his cock, in fact, he’d decided he wouldn’t fuck Patrick at all. But Patrick wasn’t there. He stood by the doors and waited for him to come out, half-heartedly chatting away to the kids waiting for him, one eye always on the crowd in the hope that he’d spot Patrick, but he didn’t show.

 

Once the set was over, he asked Gus, the senior tech, where exactly he might find Patrick. He had to have been there during their set, right? He’d have noticed if he hadn’t, right? Right? Gus couldn’t help him. Hadn’t seen him since Corpse Wives’ set. Corpse Wives. What a fucking stupid name. 

 

Alex could. Pete didn’t even ask him, but Alex was loads of help when he shouted across the entire merch room that “Patrick’s fucking some scene kid!” 

 

Pete silently slumped into the back of the van for the rest of the night and sulked all the way to North Carolina.

  
  
  
  


“Are you ignoring me?” Yes. 

 

“No, why would I?” 

 

“Oh. Just, dunno, I thought you were avoiding me…” Pete glanced up at Patrick, his mouth twisted to the side as he watched his hands fidget. He seemed uncertain of himself. Something about that made Pete feel smug. He probably shouldn’t, knew he shouldn’t, but cut him some slack here, he’d been ditched the night before. 

 

“No, no not at all. You’ve just not been around.” 

 

“Uh…” Patrick awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, “well, y’know… there’s, like... well.” Pete knew where this was going, part of him wanted to watch as Patrick poked around his words, part of him was too fuelled by secondhand embarrassment. 

 

“It’s fine I get it, gotta strike while the iron’s hot, right?” Relief crossed his features as Pete seemed to be understanding and patrick nodded.

 

“Yeah, exactly, I mean… might never see the guys here again, y’know?” It was fine. Pete was the same, really. How many times had he ditched plans with the band to pursue a hot girl who was making eyes at him? 

 

“So, can I take you out on that date later? After the show? Asking now so you don’t go running off again.” Pete winked, told himself this wasn’t jealousy, it was just a joke. Patrick even laughed at it.

 

“Oh man, I didn’t… realise you were serious… okay, yea, sure, after the show. You’re paying, dipshit.” Pete stuck out his tongue but didn’t object. Patrick’s arse looked spectacular in those skin-tight jeans as he wandered away from him. 

  
  
  
  


That night, Patrick was waiting for him. Pete had made  _ some _ effort, exchanged the sweaty shirt for a button-down, even taken a three-second shower to rid himself of the sweat and stench. Patrick was in the same old Rise Against shirt and black faux leather pants he’d already been sporting earlier that day. He grinned widely as Pete approached, the feeling in his stomach the post.show comedown rather than butterflies or anything dumb like that. Pete Wentz didn’t do butterflies. Not even for pretty scene boys. 

 

“So where are you taking me?” Pete didn’t know. Admittedly, Pete didn’t even know exactly which city they were in, just knew it was somewhere along the east coast, and he knew there must be some shitty American chain on the main road not far from their beat-up venue. 

 

“Uh, Olive Garden?” Patrick raised his brows, a disbelieving, yet amused expression plastered on his face, the corners of his mouth pulled into a faint smile. 

 

“Okay, yea, sure, why not. Let’s make this a pre-prom night dinner. Take me to the Garden, Chad.” Pete wasn’t sure he got the joke, but it didn’t really matter when Patrick hooked his arm in his elbow. 

  
  
  
  


“So, thing is, right, my brother doesn’t get it. He’s all  _ ‘oh it’s a waste of time’ _ , whatever, but if you, like… if you look at the way the internet is blowing up, and social media, even, it could seriously become like… an essential part of your career. I mean look at me, I only have this job because of MySpace, man!” A part of Pete wanted to point out that he had the job because of a quick blowjob back in May, but Patrick insisted one of the tour managers had found him on MySpace, seen how moderately famous he was and decided he’d bring in some crowds. Pete didn’t want to blow this, not just yet, so he kept his mouth shut.

 

“Seriously, you should focus on socials, in a few years, image will be where all your money is generated. No more record sales once streaming music becomes legal, honestly, it’s only a matter of time. Get a good merch team now, I’m telling ya.”

 

“Mmh.” Patrick was very, very chatty. Pete, despite actually having been fully aware of this, was only just realising that he’d never really had an actual  _ conversation _ with the kid. Even now they were talking, it was more Patrick conversing  _ at  _ him and Pete nodding along whilst dreamily staring at that plush-plump lip. 

 

He was faintly aware of the fact that they’d started talking about MySpace at some point, about Patrick’s pseudo-fame on the platform, about the gaggle of faceless scene kids that followed him around everywhere, but that wasn’t  _ real _ . What Patrick had, his fame or whatever he wanted to call it, wasn’t real, it was fleeting, here today, gone tomorrow, there was no mileage to it. Pete, now, Pete had something real. 

 

“You know, if you want to be famous… I could help you out there.” He could take the kid under his wing, show him the ways of the stars. They could be Brangelina, the dream team, celebrity couple, Pete from Arma and Patrick the successful producer, he could see it now; the two of them walking the red carpets arm-in arm. Patrick would look good in a sensible little suit. Maybe a hat on his messy hair to top off the look. Patrick raised an eyebrow at Pete’s suggestion, like he was considering it, weighing out the pros, the cons and everything in-between. He wasn’t stupid, Pete could tell, spoke too well, too quickly, too smart. 

 

Then Patrick snorted. And, through all the shame he was supposed to feel, all Pete could do was smile at the sound. A nagging feeling at the corner of his consciousness was telling him he was totally, utterly fucked. And not the fun kind, either. 

 

“Thanks for your offer, Oprah, but I think I’ll wing it for now.” 

 

“Sure, whatever floats your boat, man. Give me a call if MySpace doesn’t work out for you.” It wasn’t meant to be a bitchy comment. Pete Wentz, despite what people liked to think, wasn’t a bitch. He was, however, a complete dumbass and despite having gone to two English lectures at DePaul before deciding academia wasn’t for people like him, he had no concept of appropriate communication. All he could do was hold his breath as he waited for Patrick to snap at him for it, or worse, just get up with no further warning.

 

He laughed. 

 

“Alright, alright, I’ll let you know.” 

 

By the time Patrick stopped talking long enough to actually take a bite out of his pizza, Pete was convinced it must have been cold, but he happily ate the onion margarita nonetheless, lending his ears to Pete was he ranted about just how much he hated everybody on this tour.

 

“So who’s your arch nemesis then?” Patrick interrupted his rant about Alex mid-sentence, making Pete aware of just how impersonable he must seem right now. For good measure, he chuckles before thinking, hard, properly, it’s important he gets this right. 

 

“Hm, the dude from Corpse Wives, maybe?” He was ratty, untrustworthy and annoying. Dumb kid who thought he had it all.

 

“Oh, Dan? He’s a weird one. Nice cock though.” The grind of his teeth shot through Pete’s skull and balled his fist. If Patrick noticed, he didn’t care. “Didn’t really know how to use it really… no, you’re definitely better on that front.” He finished off with a wink that immediately placated Pete. This kid was good. Too good. 

  
  
  
  


Pete didn’t want to fuck Patrick that night. He wanted to take him to a nice dinner, have a nice, romantic conversation, get to know him, lead him out by the arm, gently kiss him under a flickering lamp post. He didn’t want to fall into messy sheets, hot and sticky, close, warm, rough, animal and everything that felt wrong in light of a sweet little date. 

 

He was just going to let Patrick crash in his hotel room, it would be cruel to let him sleep in the back of some van when Pete’s bed was big enough for two and besides, nobody said cuddling was off the table. 

 

Pete really, really didn’t want to fuck Patrick, that hadn’t been the plan. But the second the elevator door slid shut, he felt the hot press of full lips against his pulse point, a tongue licking over his throat, the rush of breath against his skin. Oh, he wanted to resist, he really did, but Pete had never been particularly good at keeping his vices at bay and impatience was one of them, especially when he had America’s hottest scene twink hanging off him. He leaned into it, savouring Patrick’s touch, wrapping his fingers in his hair and tugging lightly. Patrick moaed quietly, pulling his head back to look at Pete, close, so close. They met in desperation, wet, messy, Patrick sucked on his bottom lip, sinking his teeth into it until Pete winced and grabbed him by the shoulders, turning him and slamming him into the wall. His cock was steadily becoming more and more interested, going from uncomfortable to painful in a matter of seconds. Patrick already had a hand on his belt, tugging at it until it hung loosely by the loops, his hand wasting no time to snake its way into Pete’s jeans and wrap around his length.

 

His mouth fell open with a gasp as Patrick stroked, too tight and too rough but so so good. 

 

“Wanna fuck you,” he grunted, forgetting everything he’d promised himself earlier that day. 

 

“Then fuck me,” Patrick urged, breathy and desperate. He couldn’t get those tight trousers off quick enough, faintly aware of the floors ticking away to the side of his as he managed to tug them down Patrick’s thighs far enough for his dick to spring free. 

 

His dick. Beautiful, long, thick, red as it curved up to his belly. Patrick took the tip in his hand and slowly began rubbing at it, obviously putting on a show for Pete as he arched his back, jutting his hips out, throwing his head back.

 

“Come on, Pete,” he panted, “come on, want your cock.” 

 

Pete had other plans. 

 

Just then, the door slid open behind them and Pete muttered silent thanks to whoever would hear him that nobody was standing by the door to see them both with their dicks out. He wanted to pull Patrick along, pull him to his room, but he held onto the bar he was leaning against and simply pushed the button to make the doors slide shut. 

 

Pete frowned.

 

“What-” that  _ lip _ , good god, it would be the end of Pete. 

 

“Makes it more, exciting, don’t you think?” Patrick leaned back, eyes wide and innocent like his dick wasn’t straining between them. 

 

“Do you get off on being caught?” He shrugged.

 

“Maybe.” Pete had never thought about it, never much considered any options other than the simplest, but now that he did… He imagined walking in on them, seeing himself balls deep inside Patrick, fucking him rabidly for anybody to see. 

 

A smirk spread across his face before he leaned in, reclaiming that fucking gorgeous bottom lip, his lip catching on the metal as he sucked at it, noses bumping, teeth clashing. Pete didn’t know what possessed him, couldn’t even blame it on alcohol because he hadn’t so much as touched a drop, but suddenly, he found himself on his knees, staring up at a very surprised, if pleasantly so, looking Patrick. He was slowly pumping his cock, so close to his face, closer than any cock had ever been. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he hoped that wouldn’t be too obvious as he leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the head of his dick. Whatever he was improvising, it couldn’t be too wrong. Patrick let out a long, strangled breath as he tentatively kissed along the shaft, butterflies in his stomach going haywire, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so nervous.

 

“Pete…” Patrick panted as he licked over him “Pete, fuck, please…” 

 

Pete was a tease. He enjoyed being a tease, enjoyed making people wait and beg and then wait some more but this was his first time coming face-to-face with a cock and he was nervous and Patrick, well… Patrick. If anybody knew how to do this, it was him, surely. 

 

Slowly, carefully, he took him into his mouth. Only the head at first, carefully testing the weight and feel of it on his tongue. It tasted gross, that was the most prevalent thing about it. Pete wondered if his was the same. Gradually, he dared to go further, until Patrick’s cock was tickling on the precipice of his gag reflex. He didn’t dare go any further, so he wrapped his right hand around the base of Patrick’s cock, stroking in time with the bob of his head. 

 

It was easier than he’d expected. He felt fingers wind their way into his hair, tugging and egging him on, but never forcing, Patrick’s hips kept twitching slightly, obviously being restrained against their will, ready to fuck into Pete’s throat and make it raw, so that all the world could hear it when he rasped into the mic tomorrow. But Patrick was gentle, careful, merely moaned quietly - for his standards, at least - above him, head thrown back so Pete couldn’t see his face, but the tension throughout his body was telling enough. 

 

He didn’t last much longer. 

 

His steady moans suddenly turned into desperate weezing, stuttering cries, laboured breaths until he finally panted, “fuck, gonna… I’m gonna fucking come, oh my…” and then he came. Pete watched carefully as his moans merged into whines, loud, desperate and he couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting forward anymore, twitching into Pete’s open, willing mouth as his fingernails dug into Patrick’s tense and trembling thighs. He heard Patrick’s head bang against the wall and then… then he tasted him. The hot, salty flavour of Patrick coating his tongue, his teeth, his throat, all of it. 

 

It was gross. Truly, utterly gross. Pete’s first instinct was to open his mouth, spit it all out, scrape it off his tastebuds, but he remembered the times their roles had been reversed, all the times Patrick had been on his knees in front of him, all the time he’d taken Pete’s load with no complaint and swallowed it down. Pete gritted his teeth and did the same.

 

“Fuck,” Patrick panted above him, holding himself up by the bar, his legs trembling, “fuck, I’m… glad I keep you around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eheheheheheheh he touched the diiiiick ehehehehehehehe. Not bad for a first blowjob, eh? Not that they're difficult. Dicks are easy to please. Don't say that to a cis man ever. Don't give away out secret. 
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos, 'tis what fuels me in these dark times. I can't afford food and I just raided my fridge. Sob story. Leave comments, I am an ancient creature that feeds off the validation given to me by others. 
> 
> Also say hi on [tumblr](https://scmi-sweet.tumblr.com) I need friends.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovelies  
> i am late  
> i have excuses but not good ones  
> them being i have a life (ish) and got distracted and busy and forgot to update (yike) i hope that won't happen again (it likely will)  
> how haveth your weekends been? Mine was 10/10, got to stroke baby shibe on underground, happiest day of my life, never felt so loved before.
> 
> Thank u snitcheroo for betaing bc i'm a mess and need external validation.
> 
> pls come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.scmi-sweet.tumblr.com) where a photo I posted of a model i photographed was recently flagged bc she had her tiddies out and as we all know female presenting nipples are not legal and should be abolished.
> 
> I'm not salty.
> 
> Anyway pls say hi I need friends.
> 
> thanks.
> 
> enjoy.
> 
> ish.

Five days. That was all that was left on this godforsaken tour, five measly days. Pete was down to counting hours, seconds, minutes, most of them spend sitting in the back of the van, headphones on full volume as he pointedly ignored anybody and everybody who wanted to speak with him. His voice was fucked, throat red and raw from nearly a month of constant vocals and… and other things. 

 

Andy kept referring to him as Pete’s boyfriend. Pete himself wasn’t sure if that was the case, he wasn’t sure if he was even okay with that himself. He liked the idea of him belonging, of the kid being his, he liked having him around, annoyingly, because he seemed to find true pleasure in acting casual-cool towards Pete’s advances, making him question just how scared Patrick was for his noncommittal reputation. 

 

Pete Wentz couldn’t be gay. 

 

And yet here he was, sucking a guy’s dick and cuddling with him almost every night. And he liked it. Annoyingly. 

 

Patrick wasn’t always there. In fact, most of the time he was off galavanting elsewhere. Sometimes, Pete caught him chatting to some guy or other, old friends, probably, at least Pete told himself that. He knew it wasn’t true. Patrick didn’t seem the type for old friends. 

 

That was what proved Andy wrong, in his mind, the fact it wasn’t just him, far from it. They never did coupley things, nowhere near each other most of the time, Pete doing his thing and Patrick doing other men whilst Pete did his best not to think about he was sloppy seconds every night. It didn’t matter anyway. Patrick came back to him in the end, no matter who else was on offer, he fell asleep next to Pete. Every night. 

 

That was a very couple thing to do, right? 

 

He turned up the volume on Kate Bush some more, to the level he only went near when there were no other overly alpha males around to judge his taste in 80s songstresses. It didn’t matter, he had no idea why he had to overthink everything. They were just friends. Just friends. Who fucked. That was all.

 

“Hey, come on princess, it’s 5.30, get inside.” Pete hastily pressed pause as his headphones were yanked out by a rather frustrated-looking Andy, who just raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

 

“I know you listen to Spice Girls, loser, come on now, you can pick daisy petals over Patrick after the show.” Pete could feel the blood rising to his face as he wordlessly trailed after his drummer.

  
  
  
  


Pete didn’t pick daisy petals that night. Instead, he picked up the clothes he’d left strewn all over the living room of Patrick’s friend he’d never met and probably wasn’t going to, but who was subject to the sounds of their late-night fornication. Patrick looked hot sat up against the wall, sweat shining on his pale skin, duvet gathered by his waist, leaving his chest bare and Pete wanting even though he’d already had him. Once he’d piled his clothes into a semi-neat heap on a chair by the window, Pete crawled back under the sheets and as close to Patrick as he could. He smelled good. He always smelled good.

 

“You reek, man.” The comment made Pete chuckle against his chest. He was fully aware, yet didn’t care.

 

“You’re charming, you know that?”

 

“I aim to reach a level somewhere between Han Solo and Jabba the Hutt.” 

 

“Mmmh, you’re leaning more towards the slug end of the spectrum for now, dear.” 

 

“Hey!” The thump he received to his ear made Pete laugh more than anything else and gave him a good excuse to enact his revenge. Good job Patrick was the most ticklish motherfucker this side of the Atlantic. 

 

“Stop, Pete, STOP, holy motherfuck- I’ll tear that fucking piercing right off your dick! PETE!” He was urgently swatting at the squirming fingers irritating his skin, trying to deny Pete the pleasure of this torture session going on. He persisted until tears were spilling down Patrick’s face, until he couldn’t move for laughter and might just die if he didn’t stop now. That and the annoyed bang against the wall behind them made him quit. 

 

It took a minute for Patrick to gather himself, wiping the tears from his eyes and wriggling under the blanket as if it could save him from the peril of Pete’s itching fingertips.

 

“You’re not safe from me anywhere, Stumpy.” His shit-eating grin faltered when he felt cold finger press against the metal stud between his legs and Patrick raised an eyebrow.

 

“Careful now, Wentz. Don’t piss me off.” 

 

He wasn’t. His cock was already twitching, ready for round two.

 

“Ah, ah, someone’s eager…” 

 

Oh, but how Pete was  _ thirsty _ for that bottom lip, to take it between his teeth and bite at it, to suck on it, lick over it. Not for the first time did he feel jealous of those little black hoops that got to spend their life hugging it. 

 

Patrick’s eyes always became lidded when he went in for a kiss. It was hot, desperate, ridiculously sexy, the way his mouth would part slightly as he leaned in, closer, closer, closer until his hot breath was tickling Pete’s skin.

 

It turned desperate quickly, Pete’s hand flying to the side of his head, clinging onto him, his fingers tangling in silver hair. It was so warm, so comforting as their bodies pressed together and Patrick began steadily stroking his dick. All Pete could do was wrap his arms around him and hold him close, alternating between kissing him hot, sloppy,  _ wet _ , and panting unbridled hunger in his ear. 

 

Patrick rolled them over, so he was lying on top, his hardening cock pressing into Pete’s hip until he sat up, arse resting on Pete’s thigh so he could continue his steady pace on Pete’s cock. It didn’t take long until he shuffled back a little and bowed down, taking it into his mouth. Pete couldn’t help but stroke over his jaw as he bobbed his head slowly, slowly, his tongue brushing on the underside of it every upstroke, swirling over the tip before he went back down again. Pete let slip a high whine when he began sucking, his hips grinding against Pete’s shins like an afterthought as he swallowed down Pete’s cock like it was an ice lolly on a hot August day. 

 

He sat back up, mouth hanging open, wet and pink and used, brushed his hair out of his face and, without hesitation or comment, lifted himself up until he was hovering over Pete’s dick. He bit his lip in anticipation, eyes fixed on where Patrick was slowly sinking down until the head of his arse hit the head of his cock, sensitive and desperate, the spit still gleaming on it. He felt the pressure of Patrick’s hole, so ready to slip in, but-

 

“You… forgot the condom.” With a low chuckle Patrick sat back up, making Pete curse himself silently.

 

“Good boy, reminding me…” He pressed a kiss to Pete’s nose as he leaned over to the strip of them beneath the pillow. Pete hated every second as he rolled it on, sort of regretting that he’d said anything at all. 

 

“What do you want?” His face was inches from Pete’s, his arse high in the air as he leaned in so close their lips were brushing.

 

“You.”

 

“Me?” Big, blue eyes, so good at faking innocence, “how do you want me? Do you want me to ride you?” Pete’s hips twitched up.

 

“Oh, you do?” The pressure returned as he leaned back. “Like this? Want me to sit on your cock?” 

 

“Just… fucking…” His hands flew to Patrick’s hips, trying to urge him on.

 

“Patience, dear…”

 

“No, no, I can’t… fuck you, seriously!” Patrick reached behind him, his fingers brushing over Pete’s cock, holding it gently as he leaned back into it, further, further and-

 

“Oh… oh, fuck, Pete…” His eyes dropped shut as he let the head slip inside him, slowly spreading him open. Patrick whined as he inched down, rocking back and forth, a little further each time. 

 

“Fuck….” Pete remained silent, mouth open in an inaudible scream as he felt himself engulfed by Patrick until he was all the way in, Patrick’s cheeks flush against his hips.

 

He sat back, panting heavily, chest rising and falling in time with his ragged breathing as he started bouncing.

 

“Fuck, you’re so thick Pete.” Note how he didn’t say big. He never said big. Then again, in comparison to Patrick, Pete supposed nobody was big. Kid had a god-given cock. He was almost curious to know what it might feel like buried deep inside of him.

 

He started rocking in his lap, then the rocking became more eager, turned into bouncing, until he was bracing himself on Pete’s chest, furiously riding his dick like his life depended on it and it was  _ good _ . The way his eyes were squeezed closed, the way the sweat gathered on his brow, his mouth hung open, his muscles trembled with the effort of it and the need in his movements. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixing with Patrick’s little moans, getting louder and louder as he went on and Pete knew he was close when those moans turned into a chain of chanted “fuck yeah”. 

 

He couldn’t help himself as he grabbed Patrick and flipped them over, taking control, almost violently fucking into him as his legs wrapped around Pete’s waist, pulling him closer, tighter, unbearably so, almost, but Pete grunted loudly in Patrick’s ear as he used him, every inch of him hugging his throbbing cock, so close to release. He tipped over the edge when Patrick began clawing at his back, begging him to come, to fill him up and how could he deny him that?

 

He cursed the layer of latex as he climaxed, shoving into Patrick once more, hard and fast as he spilled out into the condom. He was only faintly aware of the way Patrick’s toes curled against his back, the way he clenched up around him, the way he cried out as his come splattered all over the both of them.

 

It was the morning after when Pete asked him, half asleep still, barely thinking, but he wanted to make it  _ official _ , that had been the word he’d used. Patrick laughed, concern hinting in his eyes. He pointed out that everybody knew they were fucking, they weren’t exactly subtle about it, so what exactly was it Pete was wanting them to make official?

 

Pete insisted Patrick knew what he meant.

 

Patrick admitted he did. 

 

“I’m not good with… monogamy,” he muttered, not looking Pete in the eye. 

 

“That’s fine”, Pete said, though he wasn’t sure it was, “we can totally do an open-relationship, it works for me… I just… really like you and want you like… as a certainty.” Bright-eyed and naive, that’s how it probably came off to Patrick when Pete stared at his lips almost pleadingly, willing them to give the answer he wanted… needed? 

 

They didn’t. Not right away, anyway. 

 

“I dunno, man, I just… I don’t want you to, like… get hung up on this or… or whatever, like…” He sighed, long and loud, looking anywhere he could but Pete. Finally, after what seemed like half an eternity and then some, he gave in.

 

“Yea, sure, okay, we’ll… we can give it a go, I suppose…” 

 

Pete, because he was Pete and because, despite what he’d have said less than two months ago, he was a cuddler, leapt for Patrick, caging him in his arms, squeezing him tight as he dragged him back down into the mattress. A loud yelp escaped Patrick, his body tense in shock, but by the time he’d been knocked back into a lying position, he was giggling. And, because he was Pete and because Pete was, apparently, a teenage girl, he pressed his face into every patch of bare skin he could reach, leaving sloppy, loud kisses all over a slightly nervous-sounding Patrick.

 

He was certain,  _ certain _ this would work out. How could it not?

  
  
  
  
  


The other bands never figured it out. It wasn’t all that surprising, they only had a few days left to notice the slight shift in Pete’s mood, the slight shift in their dynamic now that they were A Thing, and they were too dumb for subtleties. It wasn’t like not everybody had known they were fucking beforehand, so the amount of times they were both missing weren’t surprising to anybody, and who was paying enough attention to them to notice the way he’d wrap his arm around Patrick’s waist, the way he’d press gentle kisses to his forehead, the way Patrick would lean into him?

 

Andy, that was who. But Andy was the only one, the wise one, the oh so grown-up one, he told Pete to not get in too deep, to watch out for his feelings. 

 

“Dude, I know what you’re like,” he started, his serious face firmly in place. Pete’s brain had already disengaged at that point. “You’re all or nothing. You’ve always been all or nothing and I don’t… I can’t tell you what to do, obviously, but don’t… just don’t get too carried away with Patrick.” 

 

For lack of anything else to say, Pete shrugged. He knew Andy would have his opinions on things, he always did. Voice of reason. Moral compass. The only true adult on board. Pete could look after himself, thank you very much. 

 

He ignored it. 

 

Though there was still an underlying fear that ate away at him. The horrible suspicion that when, in four, three, two, one days, tour was over, they would be, too. Patrick would disappear the way he’d appeared, quietly at the back of a crowd. The more he thought about it, the more likely that option seemed, this was all too good to be true, right? It wasn’t like Pete wasn’t aware of how obnoxious he was, how stuck-up, how insufferable. There was a good chance Patrick had merely agreed so he would quit his begging. He was a nag, he knew that. He wore people down until they couldn’t take him anymore, there was a reason he wore through friends quicker than he wore through cheap shirts. 

 

When he snaked off to the mixing desk after their last set that Saturday, Pete was halfway convinced he wouldn’t find silver hair and dark tattoos, no blue eyes, no dopey smile. 

 

But there he was, as ever, leaning into Pete as he pressed a kiss to his temple. 

 

He was still by his side the next morning, not in a hotel bed or a stranger’s living room, but in his own apartment, between Pete’s sheets and arms. He was so pale in the sunlight, his skin like china and Pete was so afraid he’d break it. It was beautiful if he ignored the foreign bruises on his waist and hips. Fingerprints, dark blue fingerprints on his own canvas. 

 

It didn’t matter, they weren’t exclusive, that much was clear. It didn’t diminish the fact that it was  _ him _ Patrick had said yes too,  _ him _ he was officially dating. More than just sex. It was him Patrick would show himself to when he was too lazy to shower or to ring his eyes with black, him he’d cuddle up with in font of the TV, him he’d get takeout with. None of the others, nameless, faceless. 

 

By the time they were a month in, Pete had fucked Patrick on every surface and against most walls of his apartment, gradually increasing his neighbours’ hatred of him. Patrick still came back after the fourth time pressing him up against the kitchen counter, the rough edge of it leaving a mark across his hips. 

 

By the time they were two months in, Patrick had started leaving things lying around his flat. Small things, T-Shirts, toothbrushes, shower gel, sex toys. He had six more than Pete, making it a total of six. They were fine, Pete supposed, Patrick liked the added stimulation, liked the buzzing and stroking and stretch of them, but Pete didn’t much care. As long as he could have Patrick, it was fine. (Though he did approve of the cock ring, dragging out Patrick’s orgasm, not denying it, just prolonging it. And Patrick so loved teetering on that edge before the high hit, loved the frustration of it, the longing, the need. And Pete loved watching him squirm and writhe and beg.)

 

By the time they were three months in, Pete was half in love. Every bruise that wasn’t his stung a little more, every time he asked Patrick around and he cancelled, or worse, didn’t pick up the phone until Pete tried again ten minutes later, cut a little deeper. 

 

He decided to not sit on it. Big actions, big, bold, actions, were the root of progress, were they not? It seemed to make sense, in his head at least. Pete wrote a card, it was dumb, cheap and tacky but it was a card nonetheless, words inside declaring his love without saying it, paired with red roses because it seemed grander than a box of chocolates and tonight was for grand statements. 

 

He knew where Patrick kept the spare keys, hidden under the front step of a block of flats at the end of the road, though he wasn’t sure  _ how _ he’d found that hiding place, and used them to get in. He found himself cursing the broken lift as he climbed the stairs to the fourth, no, wait… fifth floor, almost out of breath by the time he reached the top - he should get back into working out or Patrick wouldn’t be the only one with spare puppy fat. 

 

He knew something wasn’t right the second he came waltzing in, big grin on his face faltering at the silence. Silence wasn’t anything bad, really, was it? Silence just meant he wasn’t in, right? It would be cute. Pete could decide if he wanted to be here when he got back, or if he wanted Patrick to find them on his own. No, he sort of wanted to see his expression, the smile, feel the way his heart would float and soar. Sweet kisses and gentle lovemaking. That was on the agenda for tonight.

 

Except it wasn’t like that. Something felt wrong. And Pete’s belly dropped out of his body when he realised what it was. It wasn’t silent, not exactly. There was a low, rhythmic beat knocking against the wall next to him, the one leading to the room he spent so much of his time in. Occasionally, he’d hear the other guy and it would make everything inside him clench and writhe. He should leave the flowers and the card on the table and go. He should. This would be the last guy Patrick would fuck who wasn’t him, certainly. It didn’t matter. 

 

His body wasn’t listening to his brain as he opened the door and looked in regardless.

 

Whatever he’d been picturing, it was so much worse.

 

Pete felt sick when he saw Brandon there,  _ Brandon _ , sleazy, gross Brandon who couldn#t even play the fucking guitar to save his life, who was awkward and shit and bad at flirting and anything girls. He was a gross, fat, slimy kid and the only option Pete had since Ryan had left the band. 

 

His fist was coiled, ready to swing, ready to deliver the blow that would knock the fucker off Patrick, off the bed, out of the band and out of his life, hopefully leaving some of his teeth behind so Pete could keep them on a string and wear them around his throat. 

 

Patrick.

 

That was what almost killed him more. 

 

Lying underneath, on his back, legs wrapped around Brandon’s gross, sweaty body, his fingernails digging into his back, his toes curling. Pete couldn#t stop staring at his face. His rolled-back eyes, his open mouth, the way his throat would move at every silent gasp and Joe’s voice from what seemed like a thousand years ago piped up at the back of his mind. 

 

Patrick almost choked on air as he came, his body convulsing, back arching off the mattress, arms grappling for grasp, head thrown so far back he might be possessed. 

 

Pete wanted to tear the skin off Brandon’s bones when he shoved himself deep into Patrick as he followed him. 

 

Patrick saw him first. The expression on his face was impossible to read, mouth open slightly, confusion in his eyes, concern in his brow, but the afterglow clinging to him the way it  _ never _ did with Pete.

 

Brandon proved his stupidity more when he tried to kiss him, fucking  _ kiss _ his vocalist’s boyfriend. 

 

Patrick wasn’t paying him enough attention for it to succeed, instead he was staring at Pete, flowers in his arm, card crinkled in his fist.

 

He ushered Brandon, who finally, finally noticed they were no longer alone, out and off of him. He looked ashamed, his pathetic frame cowering away from Pete’s rage, trying to cover his pathetic, softening little dick. Pete barely spared him a glance. 

 

Patrick looked ridiculous, his own jizz splattered on his stomach, his body sweaty, his hair greasy and damp. It hurt a lot.

 

“Pete-”

 

“You’re a fucking dick, you know that, right?”

 

“ _ I’m _ the dick? You-” A quick glance was thrown over his shoulder before he shoved Pete out of his room, closing the door behind both of them. His voiced dropped down to a quiet hiss as he spat at Pete.

 

“You know we aren’t exclusive! I told you! What the fuck are you doing here?!” Pete dropped the flowers, card still clenched in his fist.

 

“My  _ guitarist _ , dude! I can like… fucking put up with your fucking… with your fucking entourage of dudes but my  _ guitarist _ ?! That’s fucking  _ low _ !”

 

“Why, are you gonna police who I sleep with now?!”

 

“I’d appreciate it if you kept your… bullshit to anonymous guys I’ve never fucking heard of!”

 

“You wouldn’t have heard of this if you’d never come bursting in!”

 

“Oh, sorry I wanted to surprise my  _ boyfriend _ with a little romance!”

 

“You fucking know our deal! I fuck other guys, you get me full-time. Almost full-time. Like, I dunno, 80% time! That’s the deal!”

 

“You seemed to be enjoying that quite a fucking bit more than you ever enjoy me! My fucking  _ guitarist _ !” It hurt to say it. To admit it to himself, He wasn’t enough. Patrick needed his fill of other men. Pete would never, never be enough. He bit back any emotion that wasn’t anger.

 

“Why the fuck do you care?!” Patrick scoffed, as though Pete’s hurt was ridiculous “why do you care what I do with other men?! This has nothing to do w-”

 

“Because I fucking love you!” 

 

All the times Pete had imagined saying it to someone, he’d pictured clear scenarios in his mind. A romantic evening by the lake, a dinner date, a takeout and a nice movie, roses and cheesy cards. Never like this. Never.

 

Silence fell between them, the bellowed confession ringing in both their ears until it hurt. 

 

And then he laughed.

 

Everything, every last atom within Pete started to crumble. Slowly at first, the initial chips flaking until the walls were coming down, breaking the dam he’d constructed around his heart. 

 

“You think that’s fucking funny, do you?” There was malice in his tone now. Bitterness, anger, hurt,  _ so much hurt _ . Patrick bit his lip. 

 

“No, no, I just, I… I dunno…” He looked concerned, amused, something… something… He’d been playing him all this time.

 

“You’re shit, do you know that?” Patrick cast his gaze to the ground, “I fucking… bled for you, I’d honestly… I’d do anything for you and I have been nothing but good. Never complained when you came to me with bruises, respected your… your space, your lifestyle because I thought you… you were… different. You needed it because you were just, I dunno, untameable or some shit.” 

 

“Pete, look, I think… you’re overreacting, honestly, it’s n-”

 

“ _ I’m _ overreacting? I just told you I fucking  _ love _ you and you… laugh at me!” His voice wasn’t going to break, it  _ wasn’t _ . Pete pretended the tears weren’t rising behind his eyes. “I’d fucking… I’d take any of you! I’d take the last percent if that’s what you offered me! You could spend all night fucking any man you wanted, fuck even… my fucking  _ guitarist _ , like the inconsiderate shit you are and I’d take the very last percent if you let me but you’re my  _ boyfriend _ ! I can… I respect your fucking and you’re such a slut you can’t even think of me for a second!” 

 

The second it was out, he regretted it. 

 

He could feel the way his gut clenched and his teeth closed on his tongue, trying to stop it from slipping out, but it was too late. He could already see it in his eyes, the betrayal, the pain of his words. Pete tried his best to backpedal.

 

“Sorry, I… I didn’t mean that last bit, I just…” he was dumb, stupid, emotional, he wasn’t thinking, just trying to hurt Patrick as much as he’d just hurt him. He tried to explain this, all of it, but his mouth was dry.

 

“Get. Out.” The apathy in his expression was gut-wrenching. It took one word for Pete to fuck up and a second for Patrick to cut him off.

 

“I didn’t-”

 

“Now. Get out.” Pete hadn’t noticed they were no longer alone until he heard a voice he’d not heard in a long time speak up, laced with the heaviness of a high.

 

“Time to leave, buddy.” 

 

Pete didn’t look at Joe. Or Patrick, for that matter. He didn’t look anywhere but the floor as he shuffled out of the apartment, head hanging low in shame and the first tears threatening to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry don't hate me if u do leave it anon on [tumblr](https://www.scmi-sweet.tumblr.com) so I can feel important. thank uwu.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heller
> 
> welcome bacc
> 
> i see you all liked my last chapter. or not. probably more accurate. what can I say, i love me some angst. Whose side are you on here? Is pete being unreasonable or is patrick being inconsiderate? 
> 
> Anyway, here's my grande finale *drumroll* so you can see how this all turns out... 
> 
> prepare tissues.
> 
> (i have a cold)
> 
>  
> 
> as this, the last chapter, looms, I'd like to say 384380430430 thanks to snitchesandtalkers who always always always helps me out even though I must be the most insufferable person to beta for so thank u u r an good friendo. Pls go check out her stuff if you haven't for some fuckin reason, she's insanely good. Maybe - dare I say it - the best? 
> 
> Anyway,
> 
> enjoy

Pete wasn’t crying, okay? He wasn’t. His face was pressed against the window of their shitty little van he wanted more than anything to run off the road and crash and burn, ideally with him inside, tears falling down his face and chasing the raindrops pearling their way down the glass, catching the light from the great outdoors, withe, gold and red headlights cutting through the deep blue of a Thursday afternoon, midwest showers washing away what little stability he could still find. The thought of losing the past tore through him with the force of a tsunami, he tried to cling onto something without physical form, wished himself to last month, last year, any time before it hurt so much and maybe he could do it differently this time and not let himself be wounded. It tore him apart with shaking little sobs and a pain, such  _ pain _ in his chest that it threatened to rip him into shreds. 

 

But if somebody asked, he wasn’t crying. He was asleep, couped up in the back with their gear, trying to recover from back-to-back shows rather than from a week-old break-up. He could hear Brandon and Chris talking in the front. It took everything within Pete not to launch himself through the van and tear his heart out through his throat. He could see Andy in the row in front of him, glancing over his shoulder in two-minute intervals, a concerned look in his eyes, but he knew better than to say anything. 

 

Truth was, he felt like an idiot. What had he been expecting, realistically? All he’d ever wanted him around for was sex. In fact, that was all he’d ever wanted from anybody. He was a dick and an arsehole on legs, didn’t care for anything or anyone that couldn’t get him off and very few things that could. Why had Pete thought this would end any other way? Because the sex had been good but… if he was honest with himself, that had been all. It had never been anything but that. Pete was stupid for ever letting himself believe anything else. 

 

He curled up beside his bass and closed his eyes, wishing for a world where he wasn’t hurting. Maybe just a world where he wasn’t. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Albany was cold and grey. The winter winds gnawed away at his brain, letting the freeze sink in through his ears, past his temples and settle in his jaw. Pete wanted nothing more than to be at home with his mom, to spread out on her couch and watch re-runs of Spongebob in his pyjamas all afternoon until he passed out and his dad came to cover him up with a blanket. His mom had this amazing cure for sadness that was mostly chocolate and partly cuddles. She was good with feelings, his mom was. 

 

Pete not so much.

 

Andy was following him around like an emotional support drummer, tagging along when he ran off in search of half-decent waffles he’d pay for with the money he’d been handed by merch the evening prior. They’d finished unloading, their stuff dumped in a room somewhere behind the stage he hadn’t seen yet and wouldn’t see until he stepped on it in front of a roomful of kids that night, he didn’t want to have to look at tech, strange faces, all of them but one Pete had insisted they’d employ for these four dates crammed in between recording sessions and breakdowns. Andy had told Pete not to take him along. Pete should have listened. 

 

He was thankful to Andy, he hadn’t tried to make awkward conversation, merely shadowed him as he cruised around streets he didn’t know and didn’t look very promising. 

 

“We could see if there’s delivery?” He suggested after half an hour of fruitless search. Pete shrugged, trying not to feel like a failure because he couldn’t even locate Waffles in Albany.

 

“Come on Pete, come, it’s cold, let’s go back.” The hand on his shoulder was gentle and soothing but he slapped it away nonetheless. 

 

“No, can’t go back.”

 

“Why not?” 

 

“I just, I can’t.” He kicked the curb, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie as he stared down at the stone that scuttered over the pavement.

 

Andy’s voice was soft when he spoke again, soft and careful like Pete was a pressure pad that would explode if he was just a little too harsh.

 

“You know he quit, right?” His head snapped up, catching Andy’s look, nervous and sad, like he had any reason to be. Something flared up inside of Pete like a snake rearing its ugly head, swaying as it decided whether or not to surge forward and lash out. 

 

And then it disappeared, leaving Pete with... nothing.

 

“Oh. Okay.” He wasn’t sure if it was. In fact, he wasn’t so sure about anything. Hard to know what you want, what you feel, when what you feel is empty.

 

“He, uh… called me a few days ago, said to tell you he-”

 

“I don’t want to hear it!” Pete snapped, suddenly, a split second of rage interrupting Andy’s message. “Really, I… I don’t want to hear it.” Andy nodded and stayed quiet.

  
  
  


The show was only marginally more successful than the waffle hunt. Pete wasn’t at his best, that much was evident, he could see his lack of enthusiasm mirrored in the front row, questioning looks thrown at him when he fucked up lyrics for a fourth time, the only song on his mind one he hadn’t written yet. He wouldn’t read the reviews of this one, he decided. Or maybe he would, just so the pit in his stomach was reaffirmed by whichever bored teen decided to puke out some words on whichever was the hot blog of the hour. 

 

They’d been calling him names since the first time he set foot on a stage. He was certain he’d heard all the worst already. 

 

There was still a roar in the crowd but it was dull, low-energy and it did nothing at all to clear Pete’s mind. Usually he’d leap into the pit, eyes blazing, throat tearing, his vocal chords shredded, but not now, not today. 

 

The room felt empty without him in it. Pete feared if he tried to stage dive, he might fall. 

 

He forgot about the encore, was dragged out again by andy, his shirt already off, at least that made the kids happy. He tried to do well, he really did, tried to remember what it was like to go to see your favourite band only to get a shitty evening. But then again, Pete wasn’t convinced they were anybody’s favourite band. How could they be? In what world? In what world did his lyrics mean anything more than text to music to anybody? They weren’t here for him. Any of them.

 

He stuck around after, slumped in a chair by the merch, letting Chris and Brandon handle the kids, only looking up with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes when one of them came up to him. Some of them were young. So young. Too young to be here, really, certainly too young to understand his words. Had they always been that young? He felt almost sick thinking that he might have slept with a girl still in high school.

 

Who was he now?

 

Who was Pete Wentz?

 

A quick glance at the dim screen of his flip-phone confirmed that he should probably be sleeping. 11 pm and he was heading to bed. God, his rockstar career really had been short-lived, hadn’t it? Pete was just so  _ tired _ . 

 

He shrugged on his coat, gathered up his water bottle and gave Andy’s shoulder a squeeze, just to let him know he was headed off. He looked worried and Pete hated it. He didn’t need anybody to worry about him. There was no point to it and it made him too aware of himself. Pete was happiest when he could ignore the fact that he was. 

 

He didn’t even notice at first, simply pushed through the crowd he hoped would ignore him the same way he was ignoring them, a tight fist coiling in his gut an his breathing laboured as he tried to find the exit. Too focused on his own escape to notice anybody. He didn’t know what made him stop and turn. Maybe some part of his sub-conscience that still picked up on every little sign, every reminder, every element of him. 

 

There must have been enough to trigger a reaction.

 

His hair was different. Lilac, light, shimmering, almost silver but not quite. Different. The black lip ring had been exchanged for a silver one, the black around his eyes smudged and messy, but it was him. Definitely him. 

 

It strange, the way your body reacts when you see somebody you know you shouldn’t wand but do, somebody you love but who doesn’t love you, when the encounter you’ve replayed time and time again in your head is a reality, you can take it, hold it, live it. It seems almost disappointing. If it never happens, it can forever be a fantasy. A ‘what-if’, a ‘maybe’. Like confessing to your crush, except you’ve already done that and fallen for them and been hurt, disappointed, turned away… betrayed. But in your mind, an encounter could be the reunion you’ve dreamt about every night before sleep.

 

For Pete, Patrick wrapped his arms around him in the fantasy, held him close and whispered  _ sorry, he was wrong. He’d been so wrong. _

 

Patrick just smiled. That stupid white-guy smile where he tucked what little of a top lip he had away, a look of pity rather than regret on his face. Pete didn’t react. 

 

His hands were shoved in his pockets, shoulders pulled up to his ears as he hopped from foot to foot like he… like he was nervous. Pete wouldn’t approach him. He’d promised himself that much. His dreams were safe in his head. He couldn’t embarrass himself more than he had. 

 

But when Patrick made that move, when Patrick stepped towards him, he thought his soul, or what was left of it, might abandon him. He felt numb. With and without him. No, wait. That was The Police.

 

“Hey.” Hey.  _ Hey _ . It hadn’t even been that long. Why did Pete feel like he’d just been given water after a lifetime in the desert? He thought he might cry for the relief of hearing his voice again.

 

Stupid.

 

He was so fucking stupid.

 

Naive, romantic, stupid.  _ Get it together, Pete _ . 

 

“Sup?”  _ Sup _ . Fucking… he wanted to tear his own tongue out. Patrick chuckled.

 

“Hey. I uhm… hm, I’m not like… god show!” Pete smiled, told himself it made him happy.

 

“Thanks, could have been better, I feel. My throat’s a bit rough.”  _ Because I’ve been crying for almost a month _ . Patrick waved a dismissive hand.

 

“Meh, part of the live appeal is that something’s off, otherwise you could just listen to the album.” Pete doubted Patrick owned their album. Pete also doubted Patrick went to shows solely for the music.

 

“So uhm… like, if you don’t mind my asking, why are… you here? And like… talking to me”; he added quickly, realising Patrick was probably over it, it had likely hardly hurt him and he was back to his normal life of following bands on tour. Patrick, however, didn’t casually shrug it off or wave his hand dismissively. Instead, he scratched the back of his neck, his nervous twitch, some days Pete would find red fingernail marks there. A sudden urge to see swelled in his gut. 

 

Patrick reached for the sleeve of his battered leather jacket, undoing the zip and rolling it up to his elbow. Pete frowned down at the dark ink staining his skin, so distant, so familiar.

 

“Now…” he muttered as he twisted and turned his arm until Pete saw the telltale cling film just above his elbow, “I hope I don’t end up looking like a total ass…” Pete frowned down at the new ink, the skin around it still red. It must be fresh. Like, really fresh. 

 

“You’ve got one hell of a god complex”, he remarked, his tone joking, his intention everything but, “tattooing your own initial on your arm.”

 

He seemed confused, maybe annoyed, by the comment. 

 

“It’s not my initial,” he insisted, though Pete wasn’t convinced. 

 

“P, dude. P as in Pete. Not Patrick.” It didn’t compute. At first, his brain wouldn’t take in the info. Pete stared blankly at Patrick, no emotion registering within or without. He was almost transfixed by Patrick’s lip, but  _ no _ , no, he wouldn’t fall for it again.

 

“Pete? Who’s Pete?” 

 

“Y-you?” okay, definitely nervous. Maybe embarrassed. “You’re Pete. Dude, this… this is for you, it’s yours. I mean if… if you’ll… if you’ll have it, otherwise I’ll just… I’ll say it’s for my mom or…” 

 

Pete had no idea how to react, mainly because he still wasn’t really sure what Patrick was saying. So he said all he could think to say. 

 

“I don’t understand…” 

 

Patrick sighed, looking away, apparently inspecting their merch. It was bad, no surprises there. 

 

“I just… I dunno, I guess I miss you? I’ve never really missed anybody before, I dunno, I… I mean I have but not like this, I thought I didn’t.. Like, I thought I didn’t care all that much but…” Pete wasn’t sure if it was real or if it was a fantasy as the words began to settle in, began to hit him and make him realise what was being said, that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a trick, no dumb, stupid joke. He looked at the red, irritated skin on Patrick’s arm. The fucking idiot. He couldn’t help but smile. There was still guilt though, guilt he’d almost forgotten about.

 

He’d spent so much time wrapped up in his own head, his own heart, his own thoughts and feelings, so much time feeling sorry for himself that he’d forgotten he hadn’t been the only one hurt. Maybe his hurt ran deeper, maybe it was heavier. Or maybe he just thought that because his was all he knew. Maybe he didn’t realise Patrick hurt, too. After all, he was the one with the tattoo. 

 

“I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t… mean it, I swear.” 

 

“I know,” Patrick nodded, “I can’t really blame you, I mean… it’s true. I am a slut.” Pete wanted to argue, but the self-deprecating little laugh that followed cut him off in his stride. 

 

“It’s not even some like pent up anger or any bullshit, I don’t have an excuse I just really like sex, but… but I also really like you and it was stupid to… to throw that away for, dunno… dick.” Pete wasn’t sure if it was a cue to laugh. He did it either way. 

 

“My guitarist’s dick.” He chuckled about it, he could now he felt his heart was being steadily patched together, but Patrick looked like he was close to dying of shame.

 

“I’m sorry about that that was… it was really shit of me. I’m sorry.” And because he could and because it felt right, Pete put his hand on the back of Patrick’s head, pulling him in until he could press a kiss to his forehead. 

 

It didn’t feel like he’d said his part, though, felt like there were too many open ends, felt like he’d managed to unlock a door he’d tried to look behind for weeks and the contents had to come out before it crushed him. “I think… I think what happened kinda… it brought up a load of shit I’ve not really dealt with and have just kinda been carting about I guess and… I just want you to know, I have to work through that. I have to somehow figure myself out.” 

 

His heart didn’t stop when Patrick’s black-rimmed eyes met his, that shit didn’t happen in real life, not at this stage, anyway. Or maybe Pete was just not naive enough for that anymore. But he felt happy. Almost at peace. 

 

“Yeah, I feel… I feel I should probably do some looking into myself. Like meditate maybe. Yoga? I could give that a go.” Pete chuckled at how serious his face was, he really believed in all that jazz. He put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and hoping the kids with tickets between here and Chicago would forgive him for what he was about to say.

 

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehehehehehehehe yay! Sorry for the lack of cocks here I figured some nice fluff would be nice, too. Plus, we all know they're gonna go home and just bone for days. 
> 
> pls leave a comment if you enjoyed this, also say hi on [tumblr](https://www.scmi-sweet.tumblr.com) (pls) aaaand I'm rly trying to get back on top of my unfinished fics so now's a good time to start catching up!! 
> 
> Also million thanks to the_chaotic_panda, data-dork on tumblr and l3earfat on tumblr for drawing me tiny art of tiny slutty scene patrick, it gave me life.
> 
> yee
> 
> thank guys
> 
> see u next timerino.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, please leave kudos and comments! Also feel free to drop me messages or asks or whatever on my [tumblr](https://scmi-sweet.tumblr.com).
> 
> Same time next week?


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